“My name,” said I glibly, “is Edward Pinkhammer. I am a druggist, and my home is in Cornopolis, Kansas.”

“I knew you were a druggist,” said my fellowtraveller affably. “I saw the callous spot on your right forefinger where the handle of the pestle rubs. Of course, you are a delegate to our National Convention.”

“Are all these men druggists?” I asked wonderingly.

“They are. This car came through from the West. And they’re your old-time druggists, too—none of your patent tablet-and-granule pharmashootists that use slot machines instead of a prescription desk. We percolate our own paregoric and roll our own pills, and we ain’t above handling a few garden seeds in the spring, and carrying a sideline of confectionery and shoes. I tell you, Hampinker, I’ve got an idea to spring on this convention—new ideas is what they want. Now, you know the shelf bottles of tartar emetic and Rochelle salt Ant. et Pot. Tart. and Sod. et Pot. Tart.—one’s poison, you know, and the other’s harmless. It’s easy to mistake one label for the other. Where do druggists mostly keep ’em? Why, as far apart as possible, on different shelves. That’s wrong. I say keep ’em side by side so when you want one you can always compare it with the other and avoid mistakes. Do you catch the idea?”

“It seems to me a very good one,” I said.

“All right! When I spring it on the convention you back it up. We’ll make some of these Eastern orange- phosphate-and-massage-cream professors that think they’re the only lozenges in the market look like hypodermic tablets.”

“If I can be of any aid,” I said, warming, “the two bottles of—er—”

“Tartrate of antimony and potash, and tartrate of soda and potash.”

“Shall henceforth sit side by side,” I concluded firmly.

“Now, there’s another thing,” said Mr. Bolder. “For an excipient in manipulating a pill mass which do you prefer—the magnesia carbonate or the pulverized glycerrhiza radix?”

“The—er—magnesia,” I said. It was easier to say than the other word.

Mr. Bolder glanced at me distrustfully through his spectacles.

“Give me the glycerrhiza,” said he. “Magnesia cakes.”

“Here’s another one of these fake aphasia cases,” he said, presently, handing me his newspaper, and laying his finger upon an article. “I don’t believe in ’em. I put nine out of ten of ’em down as frauds. A man gets sick of his business and his folks and wants to have a good time. He skips out somewhere, and when they find him he pretends to have lost his memory—don’t know his own name, and won’t even recognize the strawberry mark on his wife’s left shoulder. Aphasia! Tut! Why can’t they stay at home and forget?”

I took the paper and read, after the pungent headlines, the following: