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"Hot enough?" he enquired.
"Quite!" answered Ravenslee.
"Goin' to be hotter."
"Afraid so."
"Rough on th' kiddies, an' ice goin' up. Which reminds me I sent on the
mixture you ordered for little Hazel Bowker."
"Good," nodded Ravenslee.
"And the pills to Mrs. Sims."
"Good again."
"An' the sleeping-draught for old Martin Finlay."
"Good once more."
"Won't last long, old Martin, I guess. Never been the same since little
Maggie drowned herself, poor child. What d'ye want this morning?"
"First to pay for the medicine," said Ravenslee, laying a five-dollar
bill on the counter, "and then the use of your 'phone."
"Right there," said the chemist, nodding toward a certain shady corner,
where, remote from all intruding bustle, was a telephone booth into
which Ravenslee stepped forthwith and where ensued the following
one-sided conversation:
Ravenslee. "Hello!"
Telephone. "Buzz!"
Ravenslee. "Hello, Central, give me Thirty-three Wall, please."
Telephone. "Ting-a-ling--buzz!"
Ravenslee. "Damn this 'phone--what? No, I said Double-three
Wall.


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