"Why not take Mr. Drugg there and see if Massey can give him something?
I hate to take him home to 'Rill in this condition."
"Something to straighten him up—eh?" cried the engineer. "Good idea. If he's there and will let us in," he added, referring to the druggist, for the front store was entirely dark, it being now long past the usual closing hour of all stores in Polktown.
Janice and Frank led Hopewell Drugg to the side door of the shop, he making no objection to the change in route. It was doubtful if he even knew where they were taking him. He seemed in a state of partial syncope.
Frank had to knock the second time before there was any answer. They heard voices—Massey's and another. Then the druggist came to the entrance, unbolted it and stuck his head out—his gray hair all ruffled up in a tuft which made him, with his big beak and red-rimmed eyes, look like a startled cockatoo.
"Who's this, now? Jack Besmith again? What did I tell you?" he snapped. Then he seemed to see that he was wrong, and the next moment exclaimed: "Wal! I am jiggered!" for, educated man though he was, Mr. Massey had lived in the hamlet of his birth all of his life and spoke the dialect of the community. "Wal! I am jiggered!" he repeated. "What ye got there?"
"I guess you see whom we have, Mr. Massey," said Frank Bowman pushing in and leading the storekeeper.
"Oh, Mr. Massey! It's Hopewell Drugg," Janice said pleadingly. "Can't you help him?"
"Janice Day! I declare to sun-up!" ejaculated the druggist. "What you beauing about that half-baked critter for? And he's drunk?"
"He is not!" cried the girl, with indignation. "At least, he is like no other drunken person I have seen. He is ill. They gave him something to drink down at the Inn—at that dance where he was playing his violin—and it has made him ill. Don't you see?" and she stamped her foot impatiently.
"Hoity-toity, young lady!" chuckled Massey.