"By the way, Bill," Mr. Billings called after us, "I got a little present here for you. Some friends sent her in to me the other day. Let me know what you think of it."
We turned. Mr. Billings held in his hand a sealed quart bottle with a familiar and famous label.
"Why, that's kind of you," said Bill, gravely. He took the proffered bottle, turned it upside down, glanced at the bottom, and handed it back. "But I don't believe I'd wish for none of that particular breed. It never did agree with my stummick."
Without a flicker of the eye the storekeeper produced a second sealed bottle, identical in appearance and label with the first.
"Try it," he urged. "Here's one from a different case. Some of these yere vintages is better than others."
"So I've noticed," replied Bill, dryly. He glanced at the bottom and slipped it into his pocket.
We went out. As we passed the door Bill, unobserved, dropped into the heretofore unexplained waste-basket the yard of calico he had just purchased.
"Don't believe I like the pattern for my boudoir," he told me, gravely.
We clambered aboard and shot our derisive exhaust at the diminishing town.
"Thought Arizona was a dry state," I suggested.