fashioned way; but I can tell you that's the way city stores do it.
I thought you might want to be up to date, but I see I made a great
mistake."

"Humph!" said Gashwiler, unbitten by this irony. "I guess the old
way's good enough, long's our prices are always right. Don't forget
to put on that canned salmon. I had that in stock for nearly a year
now--and say it's twenty cents 'a' can, not 'the' can. Also say it's
a grand reduction from thirty-five cents."

That was always the way. You never could please the old grouch. And
so began the labour that lasted until nine that night. Merton must
count out eggs and weigh butter that was brought in. He must do up
sugar and grind coffee and measure dress goods and match silks; he
must with the suavest gentility ask if there would not be something
else to-day; and he must see that babies hazardously left on
counters did not roll off.

He lived in a vortex of mental confusion, performing his tasks
mechanically. When drawing a gallon of kerosene or refolding the
shown dress goods, or at any task not requiring him to be genially
talkative, he would be saying to Miss Augusta Blivens in far-off
Hollywood, "Yes, my wife is more than a wife. She is my best pal,
and, I may also add, my severest critic."

There was but one break in the dreary monotony, and that was when
Lowell Hardy, Simsbury's highly artistic photographer, came in to
leave an order for groceries. Lowell wore a soft hat with rakish
brim, and affected low collars and flowing cravats, the artistic
effect of these being heightened in his studio work by a purple