at his shop asking for banana splits or grape juice highballs, or frosted pineapple fizz.  But they had to take chocolate ice cream soda or nothing.  Sometimes in a fit of absent-mindedness he would turn his taps too hard and the charged water would spout across the imitation marble counter.  He would wag his beard deprecatingly and mutter a shamefaced apology, smiling again when the little black dachshund came trotting to sniff at the spilt soda and rasp the wet floor with her bright tongue.

At the end of September he shut up the soda fountain gladly, piling it high with bars of castile soap or cartons of cod liver oil.  Then Minna entered into her glory as the dispenser of hot chocolate which seethed and sang in a tall silvery tank with a blue gas burner underneath.  This she served in thick china mugs with a clot of whipped cream swimming on top.  Julia would buy a box of the cheese crackers that Schulz kept in stock specially for her, and give several to the sleek little black bitch that stood pleading with her quaint turned-out fore-feet placed on Julia’s slippers.  Schulz, beaming serenely behind a pyramid of “intense carnation” bottles on his perfume counter, would chuckle at the antics of his pet.  “Ah, he is a wise little dog!” he would exclaim with naive pride.  “He knows who is friendly!” He always called the little dog “he,” which amused us.

On Sunday afternoon the drugstore was closed from one to five, and during those hours Schulz took his weekly walk, accompanied by the dog which plodded desperately after him on her short legs.  Sometimes we met him swinging along the by-roads, flourishing a cudgel and humming to himself.  Whenever he saw a motor coming he halted, the little black dachshund would look up at him, and he would stoop ponderously down, pick her up and carry her in his arms until all danger was past.

As the time went on he and I used to talk a good deal about the war.  Minna, pale and weary, would stand behind her steaming urn, keeping the shawl tight round her shoulders; Rhubarb and I would argue without heat upon the latest news from the war zone.  I had no zeal for converting the old fellow from his views; I understood his sympathies and respected them.  Reports of atrocities troubled him as much as they did me; but the spine of his contention was that the German army was unbeatable.  He got out his faded discharge ticket from the Wuertemberger Landsturm to show the perfect system of the Imperial military organization.  In his desk at the back of the shop he kept a war map cut from a Sunday supplement and over this we would argue, Schulz breathing hard and holding his beard aside in one hand as he bent over the paper.  When other customers came in, he would put the map away with a twinkle, and the topic was dropped.  But often the glass top of the perfume counter was requisitioned as a large-scale battleground, and the pink bottle of rose water set to represent Von Hindenburg while the green phial of smelling salts was Joffre or Brussilov.  We fought out the battle of the Marne pretty completely on the perfume counter. “Warte doch!” he would cry.  “Just wait!  You will see!  All the world is against her, but Germany will win!”