“Poot!” he sneered. “Think they’re wunnaful, don’t they? You wait! They’ll see!”
He came to a halt, staring. “Now what they doin’?”
Elsie and Daisy had gone into a small drug-store, where Daisy straightway approached the person in charge, an elderly man of weary appearance. “Do you keep taffeta?” she asked importantly. Since she and her friend were “playing” that they were shopping, of course they found it easily consistent to “play” that the druggist was a clerk in a department store; and no doubt, too, the puzzlement of the elderly man gave them a profound if secret enjoyment.
He moved toward his rather shabby soda-fountain, replying: “I got chocolate and strawb’ry and v’nilla. I don’t keep no fancy syrups.”
“Oh, my, no!” Daisy exclaimed pettishly. “I mean taffeta you wear.”
“What?”
“I mean taffeta you wear.”
“ ‘Wear’?” he said.
“I want to look at some taffeta,” Daisy said impatiently. “Taffeta.”
“Taffy?” the man said. “I don’t keep no line of candies.”