"Why—why—I don't remember coming here to your store, Massey," said the mystified Hopewell Drugg. "I—I guess I didn't feel well."
"I guess you didn't," said the druggist, drily, eyeing him curiously.
"Was I sick? Lost consciousness? This is odd—very odd," said Hopewell.
"I believe it must have been that lemonade."
Mr. Cross Moore snorted. "Lemonade!" he ejaculated. "Suthin' b'sides tartaric acid to aid the lemons in that lemonade, Hopewell. You was drunk!"
Drugg blinked at him. "That—that's a hard sayin', Cross Moore," he observed gently.
"What lemonade was this, Hopewell?" demanded the druggist.
"I had some. Two glasses. The other musicians took beer. I always take lemonade."
"That's what did it," Frank Bowman said, aside to Janice. "Joe Bodley doped it."
"You had brandy, Hopewell. I could smell it on your breath," said
Massey. "And I know how that affects you. Remember?"
"Oh, no, Massey! You know I do not drink intoxicants," said Hopewell confidently.