“Now you look here, sonny,” he said, in the dry-goods store, “I’m conducting this revival, an’ I don’t need no help in my line.  Just you tie them stockin’s up an’ lemme have ’em.  Then I know I’ve got ’em.”  As each purchase was promptly paid for, and change had to be secured, the clerk earned his salary for that day at least.

So it was when, near the heat of the day, the good man arrived at the drugstore, the last and only unvisited division of trade, he made his appearance equipped with half a hundred packages, which nestled in his arms and bulged out about the sections of his clothing that boasted of pockets.  As he deposited his deck-load upon the counter, great drops of perspiration rolled down his face and over his waterlogged collar to the floor.

There was something exquisitely refreshing in the great glasses of foaming soda that a spruce young man was drawing from a marble fountain, above which half a dozen polar bears in an ambitious print were disporting themselves.  There came a break in the run of customers, and the spruce young man, having swept the foam from the marble, dexterously lifted a glass from the revolving rack which had rinsed it with a fierce little stream of water, and asked mechanically, as he caught the intense look of the perspiring elder, “What syrup, sir?”

Now it had not occurred to the elder to drink soda, but the suggestion, coming as it did in his exhausted state, was overpowering.  He drew near awkwardly, put on his glasses, and examined the list of syrups with great care.  The young man, being for the moment at leisure, surveyed critically the gaunt figure, the faded bandanna, the antique clawhammer coat, and the battered stove-pipe hat, with a gradually relaxing countenance.  He even called the prescription clerk’s attention by a cough and a quick jerk of the thumb.  The prescription clerk smiled freely, and continued his assaults upon a piece of blue mass.

“I reckon,” said the elder, resting his hands upon his knees and bending down to the list, “you may gimme sassprilla an’ a little strawberry.  Sassprilla’s good for the blood this time er year, an’ strawberry’s good any time.”

The spruce young man let the syrup stream into the glass as he smiled affably.  Thinking, perhaps, to draw out the odd character, he ventured upon a jest himself, repeating a pun invented by the man who made the first soda fountain.  With a sweep of his arm he cleared away the swarm of insects as he remarked, “People who like a fly in theirs are easily accommodated.”

It was from sheer good-nature only that Elder Brown replied, with his usual broad, social smile, “Well, a fly now an’ then don’t hurt nobody.”

Now if there is anybody in the world who prides himself on knowing a thing or two, it is the spruce young man who presides over a soda fountain.  This particular young gentleman did not even deem a reply necessary.  He vanished an instant, and when he returned a close observer might have seen that the mixture in the glass he bore had slightly changed color and increased in quantity.  But the elder saw only the whizzing stream of water dart into its center, and the rosy foam rise and tremble on the glass’s rim.  The next instant he was holding his breath and sipping the cooling drink.