The glass-blower, although miserably poor, hard-working and homely of feature, was a man of ideas. He suddenly recollected his precious medicine, and determined to use it to better advantage than relieving his own ills. He dressed himself in his best clothes, brushed his hair and combed his whiskers, washed his hands and tied his necktie, blackened his shoes and sponged his vest, and then put the vial of magic cure-all in his pocket. Next he locked his door, went downstairs and walked through the streets to the grand mansion where the wealthy Miss Mydas resided.
The butler opened the door and said:
“No soap, no chromos, no vegetables, no hair oil, no books, no baking powder. My young lady is dying and we’re well supplied for the funeral.”
The glass-blower was grieved at being taken for a peddler.
“My friend,” he began, proudly; but the butler interrupted him, saying:
“No tombstones, either; there’s a family graveyard and the monument’s built.”
“The graveyard won’t be needed if you will permit me to speak,” said the glass-blower.
“No doctors, sir; they’ve given up my young lady, and she’s given up the doctors,” continued the butler, calmly.
“I’m no doctor,” returned the glass-blower.
“Nor are the others. But what is your errand?”