After all, John might become a safe druggist yet, if he didn't suffer
himself to lapse into his old ways. He did not stop to dream, as
formerly, when compounding pills, and he washed all his dingy bottles so
thoroughly that they began to shine like cut glass.

"He would be a credit to the business," said old Mr. Wyatt, who always
spoke of his business as if it were spelled with a capital B, and
thought it the very finest business in the world for a man to be in.

One afternoon in March Doctor Pratt came hurriedly into the store and
said to Mr. Wyatt:

"Put up half a dozen of these powders, will you, Wyatt? Here's the full
prescription. Squire Shirley has got one of his acute attacks of
neuralgia again, and my medicine-chest was empty. I'll call for them in
fifteen minutes."

Then the overworked little doctor jumped into his gig, and was off like
a flash.

"You'd better do it, John," said Mr. Wyatt. "I can't see in this poor
light."

"Very well, sir," said John.

And, as he began to neatly fold the white slips of paper, he wondered if
the squire were really as ill as Doctor Pratt pretended he was.

The good doctor was fond of making a fuss about trifles, to add to his
own importance.