Clem Sypher slept the sleep of the warrior preparing for battle.  When he awoke at Lyons he had all the sensations of a wounded Achilles.  His heel smarted and tingled and ached, and every time he turned over determined on a continuation of slumber, his foot seemed to occupy the whole width of the berth.  He reanointed himself and settled down again.  But wakefulness had gripped him.  He pulled up the blinds of the compartment and let the dawn stream in, and, lying on his back, gave himself up to the plans of his new campaign.  The more he thought out the scheme the simpler it became.  He had made it his business to know personages of high influence in every capital in Europe.  Much of his success had already been gained that way.  The methods of introduction had concerned him but little.  For social purposes they could have been employed only by a pushing upstart; but in the furtherance of a divine mission the apostle does not bind his inspired feet with the shackles of ordinary convention.  Sypher rushed in, therefore, where the pachyderms of Park Lane would have feared to tread.  Just as the fanatical evangelist has no compunction in putting to an entire stranger embarrassing questions as to his possession of the Peace of God, so had Sypher no scruple in approaching any foreigner of distinguished mien in an hotel lounge and converting him to the religion of Sypher’s Cure.  In most cosmopolitan resorts his burly figure and pink face were well known.  Newspapers paragraphed his arrival and departure.  People pointed him out to one another in promenades.  Distinguished personages to whom he had casually introduced himself introduced him to other distinguished personages.  When he threw off the apostle and became the man, his simple directness and charm of manner caused him to be accepted pleasurably for his own sake.  Had he chosen to take advantage of his opportunities he might have consorted with very grand folks indeed; at a price, be it said, which his pride refused to pay.  But he had no social ambitions.  The grand folks therefore respected him and held out a cordial hand as he passed by.  That very train was carrying to Switzerland a Russian Grand Duke who had greeted him with a large smile and a “Ah! ce bon Sypher!” on the platform of the Gare de Lyon, and had presented him as the Friend of Humanity to the Grand Duchess.

To Sypher, lying on his back and dreaming of the days when through him the forced marches of weary troops would become light-hearted strolls along the road, the jealously guarded portals of the War Offices of the world presented no terrors.  He ticked off the countries in his mind until he came to Turkey.  Whom did he know in Turkey?  He had once given a certain Musurus Bey a light for his cigarette in the atrium of the Casino at Monte Carlo; but that could scarcely be called an introduction.  No matter; his star was now in the ascendant.  The Lord would surely provide a Turk for him in Geneva.  He shifted his position in the berth, and a twinge of pain passed through his foot, hurting horribly.

When he rose to dress, he found some difficulty in putting on his boot.  On leaving the train at Geneva he could scarcely walk.  In his room at the hotel he anointed his heel again with the Cure, and, glad to rest, sat by the window looking at the blue lake and Mont Blanc white-capped in the quivering distance, his leg supported on a chair.  Then his traveler, who had arranged to meet him by appointment, was shown into the room.  They were to lunch together.  To ease his foot Sypher put on an evening slipper and hobbled downstairs.

The traveler told a depressing tale.  Jebusa Jones had got in everywhere and was underselling the Cure.  A new German skin remedy had insidiously crept on to the market.  Wholesale houses wanted impossible discounts, and retail chemists could not be inveigled into placing any but the most insignificant orders.  He gave dismaying details, terribly anxious all the while lest his chief should attribute to his incompetence the growing unpopularity of the Cure.  But to his amazement Sypher listened smilingly to his story of disaster, and ordered a bottle of champagne.

“All that is nothing!” he cried.  “A flea bite in the ocean.  It will right itself as the public realize how they are being taken in by these American and German impostors.  The Cure can’t fail.  And let me tell you, Dennymede, my son, the Cure is going to flourish as it has never flourished before.  I’ve got a scheme that will take your breath away.”

The glow of inspiration in Sypher’s blue eyes and the triumph written on his resolute face brought the features of the worried traveler for the first time into an expression of normal satisfaction with the world.

“I will stagger you to your commercial depths, my boy,” Sypher continued.  “Have a drink first before I tell you.”

He raised his champagne glass.  “To Sypher’s Cure!” They drank the toast solemnly.

And then Sypher unfolded to his awe-stricken subordinate the scheme for deblistering the heels of the armies of the world.  Dennymede, fired by his enthusiasm, again lifted his brimming glass.

“By God, sir, you are a conqueror, an Alexander, a Hannibal, a Napoleon!  There’s a colossal fortune in it.”

“And it will give me enough money,” said Sypher, “to advertise Jebusa Jones and the others off the face of the earth.”

“You needn’t worry about them, sir, when you’ve got the army contracts,” said the traveler.

He could not follow the spirituality underlying his chief’s remark.  Sypher laid down the peach he was peeling and looked pityingly at Dennymede as at one of little faith, one born to the day of small things.

“It will be all the more my duty to do so,” said he, “when the instruments are placed in my hands.  What, after all, is the healing of a few blistered feet, compared with the scourge of leprosy, eczema, itch, psoriasis, and what not?  And, as for the money itself, what is it?”

He preached his sermon.  The securing of the world’s army contracts was only a means towards the shimmering ideal.  It would clear the path of obstacles and leave the Cure free to pursue its universal way as consolatrix afflictorum.

The traveler finished his peach, and accepted another which his host hospitably selected for him.

“All the same, sir,” said he, “this is the biggest thing you’ve struck.  May I ask how you came to strike it?”

“Like all great schemes, it had humble beginnings,” said Sypher, in comfortable postprandial mood, unconsciously flattered by the admiration of his subordinate.  “Newton saw an apple drop to the ground:  hence the theory of gravitation.  The glory of Tyre and Sidon arose from the purple droppings of a little dog’s mouth who had been eating shell fish.  The great Cunarders came out of the lid of Stephenson’s family kettle.  A soldier happened to tell me that his mother had applied Sypher’s Cure to his blistered heels ­and that was the origin of the scheme.”

He leaned back in his chair, stretched out his legs and put one foot over the other.  He immediately started back with a cry of pain.

“I was forgetting my own infernal blister,” said he.  “About a square inch of skin is off and all the flesh round, it is as red as a tomato.”

“You’ll have to be careful,” advised the traveler.  “What are you using for it?”

“Using for it?  Why, good heavens, man, the Cure!  What else?”

He regarded Dennymede as if he were insane,’ and Dennymede in his confusion blushed as red as the blistered heel.

They spent the afternoon over the reports and figures which had so greatly depressed the traveler.  He left his chief with hopes throbbing in his breast.  He had been promised a high position in the new Army Contract Department.  As soon as he had gone Sypher rubbed in more of the Cure.

He passed a restless night.  In the morning he found the ankle considerably swollen.  He could scarcely put his foot to the ground.  He got into bed again and rang the bell for the valet de chambre.  The valet entered.  Sypher explained.  He had a bad foot and wanted to see a doctor.  Did the valet know of a good doctor?  The valet not only knew of a good doctor, but an English doctor resident in Geneva who was always summoned to attend English and American visitors at the hotel; furthermore, he was in the hotel at that very moment.

“Ask him if he would kindly step up,” said Sypher.

He looked ruefully at his ankle, which was about the size of his calf, wondering why the Cure had not effected its advertised magic.  The inflammation, however, clearly required medical advice.  In the midst of his ruefulness the doctor, a capable-looking man of five and thirty, entered the room.  He examined the heel and ankle with professional scrutiny.  Then he raised his head.

“Have you been treating it in any way?”

“Yes,” said Sypher, “with the Cure.”

“What Cure?”

“Why, Sypher’s Cure.”

The doctor brought his hand down on the edge of the footboard of the bed, with a gesture of impatience.

“Why on earth do people treat themselves with quack remedies they know nothing about?”

“Quack remedies!” cried Sypher.

“Of course.  They’re all pestilential, and if I had my way I’d have them stacked in the market place and burned by the common hangman.  But the most pestilential of the lot is Sypher’s Cure.  You ought never to have used it.”

Sypher had the sensation of the hotel walls crashing down upon his head, falling across his throat and weighing upon his chest.  For a few instants he suffered a nightmare paralysis.  Then he gasped for breath.  At last he said very quietly: 

“Do you know who I am?”

“I have not the pleasure,” said the doctor.  “They only gave me your room number.”

“I am Clem Sypher, the proprietor of Sypher’s Cure.”

The two men stared at one another, Sypher in a blue-striped pyjama jacket, supporting himself by one elbow on the bed, the doctor at the foot.  The doctor spread out his hands.

“It’s the most horrible moment of my life.  I am at your mercy.  I only gave you my honest opinion, the result of my experience.  If I had known your name ­naturally ­”

“You had better go,” said Sypher in a queer voice, digging the nails into the palms of his hands.  “Your fee ?”

“There is no question of it.  I am only grieved to the heart at having wounded you.  Good morning.”

The door closed behind him, and Sypher gave himself up to his furious indignation.

This soothed the soul but further inflamed the ankle.  He called up the manager of the hotel and sent for the leading medical man in Geneva.  When he arrived he took care to acquaint him with his name and quality.  Dr. Bourdillot, professor of dermatology in the University of Geneva, made his examination, and shook a tactful head.  With all consideration for the many admirable virtues of la cure Sypher, yet there were certain maladies of the skin for which he personally would not prescribe it.  For this, for that ­he rattled off half a dozen of learned diseases ­it might very well be efficacious.  Its effect would probably be benign in a case of elephantiasis.  But in a case of abrasion of the cuticle, where there was a large surface of raw flesh laid bare, perhaps a simpler treatment might be more desirable.

His tone was exquisite, and he chose his language so that not a word could wound.  Sypher listened to him with a sinking heart.

“In your opinion then, doctor,” said he, “it isn’t a good thing for blistered heels?”

“You ask for my opinion,” replied the professor of dermatology at the University of Geneva.  “I give it you.  No.”

Sypher threw out a hand, desperately argumentative.

“But I know of a case in which it has proved efficacious.  A Zouave of my acquaintance ­”

Dr. Bourdillot smiled.  “A Zouave?  Just as nothing is sacred to a sapper, so is nothing hurtful to a Zouave.  They have hides like hippopotamuses, those fellows.  You could dip them in vitriol and they wouldn’t feel it.”

“So his heels recovered in spite of the Cure?” said Sypher, grimly.

“Evidently,” said Dr. Bourdillot.

Sypher sat in his room for a couple of days, his leg on a chair, and looked at Mont Blanc, exquisite in its fairy splendor against the far, pale sky.  It brought him no consolation.  On the contrary it reminded him of Hannibal and other conquerors leading their footsore armies over the Alps.  When he allowed a despondent fancy to wander uncontrolled, he saw great multitudes of men staggering shoeless along with feet and ankles inflamed to the color of tomatoes.  Then he pulled himself together and set his teeth.  Dennymede came to visit him and heard with dismay the verdict of science, which crushed his hope of a high position in the new Army Contract Department.  But Sypher reassured him as to his material welfare by increasing his commission on foreign sales; whereupon he began to take a practical view of the situation.

“We can’t expect a patent medicine, sir, to do everything.”

“I quite agree with you,” said Sypher.  “It can’t make two legs grow where one grew before, but it ought to cure blisters on the heel.  Apparently it won’t.  So we are where we were before I met Monsieur Hegisippe Cruchot.  The only thing is that we mustn’t now lead people to suppose that it’s good for blisters.”

“They must take their chance,” said Dennymede.  He was a sharp, black-haired young man, with a worried brow and a bilious complexion.  The soothing of the human race with Sypher’s Balm of Gilead mattered nothing to him.  His atrabiliar temperament rendered his attitude towards humanity rather misanthropic than otherwise.  “Indeed,” he continued, “I don’t see why you shouldn’t try for the army contracts without referring specifically to sore feet.”

“Caveat emptor,” said Sypher.

“I beg your pardon?” said Dennymede, who had no Latinity.

“It means, let the buyer beware; it’s up to the buyer to see what stuff he’s buying.”

“Naturally.  It’s the first principle of business.”

Sypher turned his swift clear glance on him and banged the window-ledge with his hand.

“It’s the first principle of damned knavery and thieving,” he cried, “and if I thought anyone ran my business on it, they’d go out of my employ at once!  It’s at the root of all the corruption that exists in modern trade.  It salves the conscience of the psalm-singing grocer who puts ground beans into his coffee.  It’s a damnable principle.”

He thumped the window-ledge again, very angry.  The traveler hedged.

“Of course it’s immoral to tell lies and say a thing is what it isn’t.  But on the other hand no one could run a patent medicine on the lines of warning the public as to what it isn’t good for.  You say on the wrapper it will cure gout and rheumatism.  If a woman buys a bottle and gives it to her child who has got scarlet fever, and the child dies from it, it’s her lookout and not yours.  When a firm does issue a warning such as ’Won’t Wash Clothes,’ it’s a business proceeding for the firm’s own protection.”

“Well, we’ll issue a warning, ‘Won’t Cure Blisters,’” said Sypher.  “I advertise myself as the Friend of Humanity.  I am, according to my lights.  If I let poor fellows on the march reduce their feet to this condition I should be the scourge of mankind like” ­he snapped his fingers trying to recall the name ­“like Atlas ­no it wasn’t Atlas, but no matter.  Not a box of the Cure has been sold without the guarantee stamp of my soul’s conviction on it.”

“The Jebusa Jones people aren’t so conscientious,” said Dennymede.  “I bought a pot of their stuff this morning.  They’ve got a new wrapper.  See.”  He unfolded a piece of paper and pointed out the place to his chief.  “They have a special paragraph in large print:  ’Gives instant relief to blistered feet.  Every mountaineer should carry it in his gripsack.’”

“They’re the enemies of God and man,” said Sypher, “and sooner than copy their methods I would close down the factory and never sell another box as long as I lived.”

“It’s a thousand pities, sir, anyhow,” said Dennymede, trying to work back diplomatically, “that the army contract scheme has to be thrown overboard.”

“Yes, it’s a nuisance,” said Sypher.

When he had dismissed the traveler he laughed grimly.  “A nuisance!”

The word was a grotesque anticlimax.

He sat for a long while with his hands blinding his eyes, trying to realize what the abandonment of the scheme meant to him.  He was a man who faced his responsibilities squarely.  For the first time in his life he had tried the Cure seriously on himself ­chance never having given him cause before ­and it had failed.  He had heard the Cure which he regarded as a divine unction termed a pestilential quackery; the words burned red-hot in his brain.  He had heard it depreciated, with charming tact and courtesy, by a great authority on diseases of the skin.  One short word, “no,” had wiped out of existence his Napoleonic scheme for the Armies of the World ­for putting them on a sound footing.  He smiled bitterly as the incongruous jest passed through his mind.

He had been fighting for months, and losing ground; but this was the first absolute check that his faith had received.  He staggered under it, half wonderingly, like a man who has been hit by an unseen hand and looks around to see whence the blow came.  Why should it come now?  He looked back along the years.  Not a breath of disparagement had touched the Cure’s fair repute.  His files in London were full of testimonials honorably acquired.  Some of these, from lowly folk, were touching in their simple gratitude.  It is true that his manager suggested that the authors had sent them in the hope of gain and of seeing their photographs in the halfpenny papers.  But his manager, Shuttleworth, was a notorious and dismal cynic who believed in nothing save the commercial value of the Cure.  Letters had come with coroneted flaps to the envelopes.  The writers certainly hoped neither for gain nor for odd notoriety.  He had never paid a fee for a testimonial throughout his career; every one that he printed was genuine and unsolicited.  He had been hailed as the Friend of Humanity by all sorts and conditions of men.  Why suddenly should he be branded as a dealer in pestilence?

His thought wandered back to the beginning of things.  He saw himself in the chemist’s shop in Bury Saint Edmunds ­a little shop in a little town, too small, he felt, for the great unknown something within him that was craving for expansion.  The dull making up of prescriptions, the selling of tooth powder and babies’ feeding bottles ­the deadly mechanical routine ­he remembered the daily revolt against it all.  He remembered his discovery of the old herbalists; his delight in their quaint language; the remedies so extraordinary and yet so simple; his first idea of combining these with the orthodox drugs of the British Pharmacopoeia; his experiments; his talks with an aged man who kept a dingy little shop of herbs on the outskirts of the town, also called a pestilential fellow by the medical faculty of the district, but a learned ancient all the same, who knew the qualities of every herb that grew, and with some reeking mess of pulp was said to have cured an old woman’s malignant ulcer given up as incurable by the faculty.  He remembered the night when the old man, grateful for the lad’s interest in his learning, gave him under vows of secrecy the recipe of this healing emulsion, which was to become the basis of Sypher’s Cure.  In those days his loneliness was cheered by a bulldog, an ugly, faithful beast whom he called Barabbas ­he sighed to think how many Barabbases had lived and died since then ­and who, contracting mange, became the corpus vile of many experiments ­first with the old man’s emulsion, then with the emulsion mixed with other drugs, all bound together in pure animal fat, until at last he found a mixture which to his joy made the sores heal and the skin harden and the hair sprout and Barabbas grow sleek as a swell mobsman in affluent circumstances.  Then one day came His Grace of Suffolk into the shop with a story of a pet of the Duchess’s stricken with the same disease.  Sypher modestly narrated his own experience and gave the mighty man a box of the new ointment.  A fortnight afterwards he returned.  Not only had it cured the dog, but it must have charmed away the eczema on his ducal hands.  Full of a wild surmise he tried it next on his landlady’s child, who had a sore on its legs, and lo! the sore healed.  It was then that the Divine Revelation came to him; it was then that he passed his vigil, as he had told Zora, and consecrated himself and his Cure to the service of humanity.

The steps, the struggles, the purchase of the chemist’s business, the early exploitation of the Cure, its gradual renown in the district, the first whisperings of its fame abroad, thanks to His Grace of Suffolk, the early advertising, the gradual growth, the sale of the chemist’s business, the establishment of “Sypher’s Cure” as a special business in the town, the transference to London, the burst into world-wide fame ­all the memories came back to him, as he sat by the window of the Hotel de l’Europe and blinded his face with his hands.

He dashed them away, at last, with a passionate gesture.

“It can’t be!  It can’t be!” he cried aloud, as many another man has cried in the righteous rebellion of his heart against the ironical decrees of the high gods whom his simple nature has never suspected of their eternal and inscrutable irony.