The druggist was standing in his doorway, with a facetious twinkle in his eye. Evidently Mr. Baxter's library was an accepted target for local humour.
Mr. Baxter took no notice, but disappeared into the bookshop. Mr. Pettigrew handed me my bottle.
"One of our characters, that old fellow," he said, with that little air of civic pride which marks the country-townsman booming local stock. "Quite a poor man, but possesses an extensive library—quite extensive. His learning is at the service of his fellow-citizens. He likes to be called The Oracle. Supposing you want to know something about Shakespeare, or Julius Cæsar, or Wireless Telegraphy, or Patagonia, you go to Baxter. You press the button and he does the rest! Lives a bit in the clouds, of course; and I wouldn't go so far as to say that his information is always infallible. In fact"—Mr. Pettigrew tapped his forehead significantly—"his upper storey—"
"Who made up a wrong prescription, and poisoned a baby?" demanded an acid voice immediately under the humourist's elbow. He swung round. The small girl, crimson with wrath, but with her emotions well under control, stood gazing dispassionately before her, apparently talking to herself.
"Whose wife gave a party," she continued—"and nobody came? Whose daughter wants to marry the curate—and he won't? Who—"
"That'll do," announced Mr. Pettigrew, shortly, and retired in disorder into his shop. Simultaneously The Oracle emerged from the bookshop with Robert Southey under his arm, and with a stately inclination in my direction departed down the street, under the grim and defiant escort of his infant guardian.
II
One morning about three months later, my butler, footman, valet-de-chambre, chauffeur, and general supervisor, McAndrew, thrust his head round the dining-room door as I sat at breakfast and announced:
"There's a wee body in the hall."