ids predominated. The sign above
the door would tell you that it was a drug store, if you needed
anything more illuminating than the three big bottles.

"Davis' drug store," you would say to your wife, if she happened to be
with you, and if you have been at all interested in the history of
Mr.--Mr.--Now, what is his name?--you would doubtless add, "It seems
to me I have heard of the place before." And then you would stare hard
to see if you could catch a glimpse of the soda-water dispenser, whose
base of operations was just inside the door to the left, a marble
structure that glistened with white and silver, and created within you
at once a longing for sarsaparilla or vanilla and the delicious after
effect of stinging gases coming up through the nostrils, not
infrequently accompanied by tears of exquisite pain--a pungent pain,
if you please.

At the rush periods of the day you could not possibly have seen him
for the crowd of thirsty people who obstructed the view. Everybody in
town flocked to Davis' for their chocolate sundaes and cherry
phosphates. Was not Harvey behind the counter once more? With all the
new-fangled concoctions from gay New York, besides a few novelties
from Paris, and a wonderful assortment of what might well have been
called prestidigitatorial achievements!

He had a new way of juggling an egg phosphate that was worth going
miles to see, and as for the manner in which he sprinkled nutmeg over
the surface--well! no Delsartian movement ever was so full of grace.

Yes, he was back at the old place in Davis'. For a year and a half he
had been there. So prosperous was his first summer behind the "soda
counter" that the owner of the place agreed with him that the fountain
could be kept running all winter, producing hot chocolate, beef tea,
and all that sort of thing. Just to keep the customers from getting
out of the habit, argued Harvey in support of his plan--and his job.

You may be interested to learn how he came back to Blakeville. He was
a fortnight getting there from Tarrytown. His railroad ticket carried
him to Cleveland. From that city he walked to Chicago, his purpose
being to save a few dollars so that he might ride into Blakeville. His
feet were so sore and swollen when he finally hobbled into his Uncle
Peter's art studio, on Main Street, that he couldn't get his shoes on
for forty-eight hours after once taking them off. He confessed to a
bit of high living in his time, lugubriously admi