“That applies only to the label on the bottle. So you’ll find that the words ‘alcohol,’ ‘opium,’ ‘acetanilid,’ ‘chloral,’ and other terms of poison, have sprouted forth there, in very small and inconspicuous type. But there’s a free field for the false promises on sign-boards, in the street-cars, in the newspapers, everywhere. Look in the next drug-store window you pass and you’ll see ‘sure cures’ exploited in terms that would make Ananias feel like an amateur.”
“You make out a pretty poor character for the druggists, as a class,” observed Mr. Clyde.
“Not at all. As a class, they’re a decent, self-respecting, honorable lot of men.”
“Then why do they stick to a bad trade?” asked Mrs. Clyde.
Dr. Strong got to his feet. “Let one of them answer,” he said. “Mr. Gormley, who runs the big store in the Arcade, usually passes here about this time, and I think I see him coming now.”
“They can talk all they like,” said Grandma Sharpless emphatically, as the doctor walked across to the front fence, “but I wouldn’t be without a bottle of cough syrup in the house.”
“Nor I without my headache tablets,” added Mrs. Clyde. “I’d have had to give up the bridge party yesterday but for them.”
Mr. Clyde shot a sharp glance, first, at his wife, then at her mother. “Well, I’d like to see the labels on your particular brands of medicine,” he remarked.
“There’s nothing bad in mine,” asserted Mrs. Clyde. “Mrs. Martin recommended them to me; she’s been taking them for years.”
At this point Dr. Strong returned, bringing with him a slim, elderly man, whose shrewd, wide eyes peered through a pair of gold-rimmed glasses.