“So you want me to give away the secrets of my trade,” he remarked good-humoredly, after the greetings. “Well, I don’t object to relieving my mind, once in a while. So shoot, and if I can’t dodge, I’ll yell.”
“Why do you deal in patent medicines if they’re so bad?” asked Grandma Sharpless bluntly. “Is there such a big profit in them?”
“No profit, worth speaking of,” replied Mr. Gormley. “Though you’ll note that I haven’t admitted they are bad—as yet.”
“The bulk of your trade is in that class of goods, isn’t it?” queried Mr. Clyde.
“Worse luck, it is. They’ve got us through their hold on the public. And they not only force us to be their agents, but they grind us down to the very smallest profit; sometimes less than the cost of doing business.”
“But you aren’t compelled to deal in their medicines,” objected Mr. Clyde.
“Practically I am. My really profitable trade is in filling prescriptions. There I can legitimately charge, not only for the drugs, but also for my special technical skill and knowledge. But in order to maintain my prescription trade I must keep people coming to my store. And they won’t come unless I carry what they demand in the way of patent medicines.”
“Then there is a legitimate demand for patent medicines?” said Mr. Clyde quickly.
“Legitimate? Hardly. It’s purely an inspired demand.”
“What makes it persist, then?”