"No. Guess can git ye some 'cross to ther grocery. Won't take a minit."
"All right. Could you"—and I lowered my voice—"could you get me a bottle of beer?"
"Yes—if you got a doctor's prescription."
"Could you write one?" I asked nervously.
"I'll try." And he laughed.
In two minutes he was back, carrying four bunches of celery and a paper box marked "Paraffine candles."
"What preserves have you?"
"Waal, any kind."
"Raspberry jam, or apricots?" I inquired, my spirits rising.
"We ain't got no rusberry, but we got peaches."