XV.—THE SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST
A bell tinkled over the door of the little drug store as I entered it; which seemed strange in a lighted street of a great city.
But the little store itself, dim even in the centre and dark in the corners was gloomy enough for a country crossroads.
“I have to have the bell,” said the man behind the counter, reading my thought, “I’m alone here just now.”
“A toothbrush?” he said in answer to my question. “Yes, I guess I’ve got some somewhere round here.” He was stooping under and behind his counter and his voice came up from below. “I’ve got some somewhere—” And then as if talking to himself he murmured from behind a pile of cardboard boxes, “I saw some Tuesday.”
Had I gone across the street to the brilliant premises of the Cut Rate Pharmaceutical where they burn electric light by the meterfull I should no sooner have said “tooth brush,” than one of the ten clerks in white hospital jackets would have poured a glittering assortment over the counter—prophylactic, lactic and every other sort.
But I had turned in, I don’t know why, to the little store across the way.
“Here, I guess these must be tooth brushes,” he said, reappearing at the level of the counter with a flat box in his hand. They must have been presumably, or have once been,—at some time long ago.