One of them--a stout, spectacled
gentleman enveloped in a decided odor of cinnamon and aloes--took the
vacant half of my seat with a friendly nod, and unfolded a newspaper.
In the intervals between his periods of reading, we conversed, as
travelers will, on current affairs. I found myself able to sustain the
conversation on such subjects with credit, at least to my memory. By and
by my companion said:
"You are one of us, of course. Fine lot of men the West sends in this
time. I'm glad they held the convention in New York; I've never been
East before. My name's R. P. Bolder--Bolder & Son, of Hickory Grove,
Missouri."
Though unprepared, I rose to the emergency, as men will when put to it.
Now must I hold a christening, and be at once babe, parson and parent.
My senses came to the rescue of my slower brain. The insistent odor of
drugs from my companion supplied one idea; a glance at his newspaper,
where my eye met a conspicuous advertisement, assisted me further.
"My name," said I, glibly, "is Edward Pinkhammer. I am a druggist, and
my home is in Cornopolis, Kansas."
"I knew you were a druggist," said my fellow traveler, affably. "I saw
the callous spot on your right forefinger where the handle of the pestle
rubs.
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