Turning to make sure, I saw Mr. Shaynor's eyes bent in the same direction,
and by instinct recognised that the flamboyant thing was to him a shrine.
"What do you take for your--cough?" I asked.
"Well, I'm the wrong side of the counter to believe much in patent
medicines. But there are asthma cigarettes and there are pastilles. To
tell you the truth, if you don't object to the smell, which is very like
incense, I believe, though I'm not a Roman Catholic, Blaudett's Cathedral
Pastilles relieve me as much as anything."
"Let's try." I had never raided a chemist's shop before, so I was
thorough. We unearthed the pastilles--brown, gummy cones of benzoin--and
set them alight under the toilet-water advertisement, where they fumed in
thin blue spirals.
"Of course," said Mr. Shaynor, to my question, "what one uses in the shop
for one's self comes out of one's pocket. Why, stock-taking in our
business is nearly the same as with jewellers--and I can't say more than
that. But one gets them"--he pointed to the pastille-box--"at trade
prices." Evidently the censing of the gay, seven-tinted wench with the
teeth was an established ritual which cost something.
"And when do we shut up shop?"
"We stay like this all night. The gov--old Mr. Cashell--doesn't believe
in locks and shutters as compared with electric light. Besides it brings
trade. I'll just sit here in the chair by the stove and write a letter,
if you don't mind.
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