Then addressing himself once more to the child, he uttered a sort of formula which he keeps for these emergencies—
"We don't sell powders yere. If you wanter powder, go to the chimmis."
The infant looked at him hopelessly. "Mover told me to come yere," she said.
"Under the circumstances," responded Wilfered, uttering another formula, "we will let you 'ave the powder. We won't sell it. We'll give it you. Nex' time, go to the chimmis."
"That's the sorter thing you gotter contend against," said Wilfered again, as the client departed.
He was about to repeat this observation for the third time, when his thoughts were distracted by the entry of another juvenile client—an older and taller girl than the last, though hardly a cleaner one.
"Penny soothin' powder for a baby eight months owld," demanded the new-comer. She was the possessor of a wide, immovable smile.
Wilfered bestowed another of his speaking glances upon your servant. And to the client he repeated his formula: "We don't sell powders yere, my gal. If you wanter powder, go to the chimmis."
The lady listened to this statement with an attentive air. Then she spoke again, saying, "Penny soothin' powder for a baby eight months owld."
"We don't sell powders, I tell you," responded Wilfered.