"Quite well, sir."
"And the little ones--quite well, I hope, too?"
"Yes, sir; all well, thank you. Something I can do for you?"
The affable merchant was trying to recall his customer's name.
"Not now, not now, thankee. If you please to let my bundles stay
untell I come back--"
"Can't I show you something? Hat, coat--"
"Not now. Be back bimeby."
Was it chance or fate that brought Elder Brown in front of a bar? The
glasses shone bright upon the shelves as the swinging door flapped
back to let out a coatless clerk, who passed him with a rush, chewing
upon a farewell mouthful of brown bread and bologna. Elder Brown
beheld for an instant the familiar scene within. The screws of his
resolution had been loosened. At sight of the glistening bar the whole
moral structure of twenty years came tumbling down. Mechanically he
entered the saloon, and laid a silver quarter upon the bar as he said:
"A little whiskey an' sugar." The arms of the bartender worked like a
faker's in a side show as he set out the glass with its little quota
of "short sweetening" and a cut-glass decanter, and sent a
half-tumbler of water spinning along from the upper end of the bar
with a dime in change.
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