at the high marble counter, or at the little square cherry tables in
the dim room at the rear. Drugs were a lesser consideration than
brushes, stationery, cameras, candy, cigars, post cards, gum,
mirrors, celluloid bureau sets, flower seeds, and rubber toys and
rattles, but large glass flagons of coloured waters duly held the
corners of the show windows on the street, and dusty and fly-specked
cards advertising patent medicines overlapped each other.

The three girls nodded to various acquaintances, and, as they slid
on to seats at the counter, greeted the soda clerk familiarly. This
was Reddy Johnson, a lean, red-headed youth in a rather dirty white
jacket buttoned up to the chin. Reddy was assisted by a blear-eyed
little Swedish girl of about sixteen, who rushed about blindly with
her little blonde head hanging. He himself did not leave the
counter, which he constantly mopped with a damp, mud-coloured rag.
He plunged the streaked and sticky glasses into hot water, set them
on a dripping grating to dry, turned on this faucet of sizzling
soda, that of rich slow syrup, beat up the contents of glasses with
his long-handled spoon, slipped them into tarnished nickelled
frames, and slid them deftly before the waiting boys and girls. Hot
sauce over this ice cream, nuts on that, lady fingers and whipped
cream with the tall slender cups of chocolate for the Baxter girls,
crackers with the tomato bouillon old Lady Snow was noisily sipping;
Reddy never made a mistake.

Presently he, with a swift motion, set a little plate of sweet
crackers before the girls. These were not ordinarily served with
five-cent orders, and the three instantly divided them, concealing
the little cakes in their hands, and handing the tell-tale plate
back to the clerk. A wise precaution it proved, for a moment later