“There must be an awful lot of old timers died this spring.  You can’t cut them off short and hope to save them.”

Bill grunted.

We entered the store.  It smelled good, as such stores always do—­soap, leather, ground coffee, bacon, cheese—­all sorts of things.  On the right ran a counter and shelves of dry goods and clothing; on the left groceries, cigars, and provisions generally.  Down the middle saddles, ropes, spurs, pack outfits, harness, hardware.  In the rear a glass cubby-hole with a desk inside.  All that was customary, right and proper.  But I noticed also a glass case with spark plugs and accessories; a rack full of tires; and a barrel of lubricating oil.  I did not notice any body polish.  By the front door stood a paper-basket whose purport I understood not at all.

Bill led me at once past two or three lounging cow persons to the cubbyhole, where arose a typical old timer.

“Mr. White, meet Mr. Billings,” he said.

The old timer grasped me firmly by the right hand and held tight while he demanded, as usual, “What name?” We informed him together.  He allowed he was pleased.  I allowed the same.

“I want to buy a yard of calico,” said Bill.

The old timer reached beneath the counter and produced a strip of cloth.  It was already cut, and looked to be about a yard long.  Also it showed the marks of loving but brutal and soiled hands.

“Wrap it up?” inquired Mr. Billings.

“Nope,” said Bill, and handed out three silver dollars.  Evidently calico was high in these parts.  We turned away.

“By the way, Bill,” Mr. Billings called after us, “I got a little present here for you.  Some friends sent her in to me the other day.  Let me know what you think of it.”

We turned.  Mr. Billings held in his hand a sealed quart bottle with a familiar and famous label.

“Why, that’s kind of you,” said Bill, gravely.  He took the proffered bottle, turned it upside down, glanced at the bottom, and handed it back.  “But I don’t believe I’d wish for none of that particular breed.  It never did agree with my stummick.”

Without a flicker of the eye the storekeeper produced a second sealed bottle, identical in appearance and label with the first.

“Try it,” he urged.  “Here’s one from a different case.  Some of these yere vintages is better than others.”

“So I’ve noticed,” replied Bill, dryly.  He glanced at the bottom and slipped it into his pocket.

We went out.  As we passed the door Bill, unobserved, dropped into the heretofore unexplained waste-basket the yard of calico he had just purchased.

“Don’t believe I like the pattern for my boudoir,” he told me, gravely.

We clambered aboard and shot our derisive exhaust at the diminishing town.

“Thought Arizona was a dry state,” I suggested.

“She is.  You cain’t sell a drop.  But you can keep stuff for personal use.  There ain’t nothing more personal than givin’ it away to your friends.”