"
"I cannot believe that Doris would accept any man for such a reason."
"I'm not 'any man.' She knows I'm after her. Will you take my bet,
even money?"
"No. I don't bet."
"Well, you needn't put a damper on me. In fact, you can't. Have you that
last prescription of Dr. Foxton's handy? My liver wants a tonic."
The chemist thumbed a dog-eared volume, read an entry carefully, and
retired to a dispensing counter in the rear of the shop.
"Shall I send it?" came his voice.
"No. I'll wait. Give me a dose now, if you don't mind."
For some reason, Fred Elkin was not himself that day. He was moody, and
fretful as a sick colt. But he had diagnosed his ailment and its cause
accurately; a discreet doctor was probably aware of his failings, and had
considered them in the "mixture."
The post office was not busy when Grant entered. A young man, a stranger,
was seated at the telegraphist's desk, tapping a new instrument. The G.
P. O., forewarned, had lent an expert to deal with press messages.
Mr. Martin, sorting some documents, came forward when he saw Grant. His
kindly, somewhat pre-occupied face was long as a fiddle.
"Good morning, Mr.
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