From a cotton bag he discharged a miscellaneous heap of patent preparations; salves, ointments, emollients, liniments, plasters.
“All I could get,” he explained. “No drug-store in the funny burg.”
“Thank you,” said Banneker. “You’re all right. Want another job?”
“Certainly,” said the lily of the field with undiminished good-will.
“Go and help the white-whiskered old boy in the Pullman yonder.”
“Oh, he’d chase me,” returned the other calmly. “He’s my uncle. He thinks I’m no use.”
“Does he? Well, suppose you get names and addresses of the slightly injured for me, then. Here’s your coat.”
“Tha-anks,” drawled the young man. He was turning away to his new duties when a thought struck him. “Making a list?” he asked.
“Yes. For my report.”
“Got a name with the initials I. O. W.?”