of two warm lips.  Thus he strode unheeding through the jostling throng at a speed very different from his ordinary lounging gait.  Very soon he came to a small drug-store, weather-beaten and grimy of exterior but very bright within, where everything seemed in a perpetual state of glitter, from the multitudinous array of bottles and glassware upon the shelves to the taps and knobs of the soda fountain.  Yet nowhere was there anything quite so bright as the shrewd, twinkling eyes of the little grey-haired man who greeted Ravenslee with a cheery nod.

“Hot enough?” he enquired.

“Quite!” answered Ravenslee.

“Goin’ to be hotter.”

“Afraid so.”

“Rough on th’ kiddies, an’ ice goin’ up.  Which reminds me I sent on the mixture you ordered for little Hazel Bowker.”

“Good,” nodded Ravenslee.

“And the pills to Mrs. Sims.”

“Good again.”

“An’ the sleeping-draught for old Martin Finlay.”

“Good once more.”

“Won’t last long, old Martin, I guess.  Never been the same since little Maggie drowned herself, poor child.  What d’ye want this morning?”

“First to pay for the medicine,” said Ravenslee, laying a five-dollar bill on the counter, “and then the use of your ’phone.”

“Right there,” said the chemist, nodding toward a certain shady corner, where, remote from all intruding bustle, was a telephone booth into which Ravenslee stepped forthwith and where ensued the following one-sided conversation: 

Ravenslee.  “Hello!”

Telephone.  “Buzz!”

Ravenslee.  “Hello, Central, give me Thirty-three Wall, please.”

Telephone.  “Ting-a-ling—­buzz!”

Ravenslee.  “Damn this ’phone—­what?  No, I said Double-three
Wall.”

Telephone.  “Buzz!  Ting!  Zut!”

Ravenslee.  “Sounded different, did it?  Well, I want—­”

Telephone.  “Buzz!  Zut!  Ting!”

Ravenslee.  “Thanks.  Hello, that Thirty-three Wall?  Dana and
Anderson’s Office?  Good!  I want to speak with Mr. Anderson—­say Mr.
Ravenslee.”

Telephone.  “Zing!”

Ravenslee.  “Thanks.  That you, Anderson?”

Telephone.  “Pang!”

Ravenslee.  “Thanks—­very well!  What the devil’s wrong with this instrument of torment—­can you hear me?”

Telephone.  “Crack!”

Ravenslee.  “Good!  Yes—­that’s better!  Now listen; I want you to do some business for me.  No, I’m buying, not selling.  I’m going into real estate.  What, a bad speculation?  Well, anyway, I’m buying tenement property in Tenth Avenue, known as Mulligan’s, I believe.  Oh, you’ve heard of it, eh?  Not in the market?  Not for sale?  Well, I’ll buy it.  Oh, yes, you can—­what d’ you suppose is his figure?  So much?  Phew!  Oh, well, double it.  No, I’m not mad, Anderson.  No, nor drunk—­I just happen to want Mulligan’s—­and I’ll have it.  When can you put the deal through?  Oh, nonsense, make him sell at once—­get him on the ’phone.  Oh, yes, he will, if you offer enough—­Mulligan would sell his mother—­at his own price.  You quite understand—­at once, mind!  All right, good-by.  No, I’m not mad—­nor drunk, man; I haven’t tasted a cocktail for a month.  Eh—­go and get one?  I will!”