"Now what can I give you, Ernie?" Mr. Willis asked. "Anything in the place within reason."
"I'll tell you, Bert I'd like to go back in your dispensary—you with me, if you want—and just shop around."
"That's a sort of screwy idea, Ernie. I couldn't sell you any narcotics or sleeping pills, of course—well, maybe a few sleeping pills."
"I wouldn't want any."
"What's the idea, Ernie? Getting interested in chemistry in your old ... You know, Ernie, you just don't look your years."
"Secret of mine. Yes, in a way I've got interested in chemistry."
"Won't talk, eh? I remember, when I first met you, I tagged you for an evening inventor. Well, come on back and shop around. Just don't ask me for elixer vitae, aurum potabile, or ground philosophers' stone."
"Not unless I see 'em."
Afterward, Bert Willis used to say it was one of the most mystifying experiences of his life. For a good half a day, Ernie Meeker studied the rows of jars, canisters and glass-stoppered bottles, sometimes lifting two down together and contemplating them, one in each hand, as if he could weigh the difference. Often he'd take out a stopper and sniff, and maybe, asking permission of Bert with a glance, take up a dab of some powder and taste it.
"You know that game," Bert would say, "where someone goes out of the room and you all decide on an object, or hide one, and he comes back and tries to find it by telepathy or muscle-reading or something? That was exactly the way Ernie was acting. Dog on a difficult scent."