“Don’t you ever make a mistake in giving?” said I.
“Never did but once.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Not much to tell, Jack. I gave a man the measles once and lost his trade.”
He was so nervous about that I felt for a moment that he had walked into some fellow’s office and handed out a package marked “measles,” expecting to make a hit by doing it.
The next dealer we struck was a little, under-sized, florid man, who had a twinkle in his eye that put you in good humor at once. This time Harry introduced me as a druggist out of a job, and Mr. Wise, the dealer, asked me if I was a good judge of spiritus frumenti.
“Try him,” said Harry, and Mr. Wise started for his sash house, motioning for us to follow. We went to the farther end of the sash house and there down inside a pile of sash Mr. Wise fished out a bottle of whiskey. I tasted of it.
“It’s rotten,” said I, and it was. Harry laughed and pulling a pint flask from his pocket, said:
“I told Jack to say that so I could offer you a pint of the best that’s made.”
It was good, and although Mr. Wise did not know the difference, he pretended he did and we didn’t do a thing to that pint bottle between us in about ten minutes. The talk of the morning had made me so dry I could hardly stand it. Harry got an order for three cars at that place and then nothing of real worth turned up for a couple of days.