On one arm he carried a long, uncovered basket in which were arranged
rows and piles of small bottles; a glance at the basket reassured her,
every one knew Crazy Dale, the peddler of essences, cough-drops and quack
medicines.
"It's lonesome walking alone; I've been running to overtake you; I tried
to be in time to catch a ride; but no matter, I will walk with you, if
you will kindly permit."
She looked up into his pleasant countenance; he might have been handsome
years ago.
"Well," she assented, walking on.
"You don't know where I could get a girl to work for me," he asked in a
cracked voice.
"No sir."
"And you don't want a bottle of my celebrated mixture to teach you how to
discern between the true and the false! Rub your head with it every
morning, and you'll never believe a lie."
"I don't now," replied Marjorie, taking very quick steps.
"How do you know you don't?" he asked keeping step with her. "Tell me how
to tell the difference between a lie and the truth!"
"Rub your head with your mixture," she said, laughing.
But he was not disconcerted, he returned in a simple tone.
"Oh, _that's_ my receipt, I want yours. Yours may be better than mine."
"I think it is."
"Tell me, then, quick."
"Don't you want to go into that house and sell something?" she asked,
pointing to the house ahead of them.
"When I get there; and you must wait for me, outside, or I won't go in."
"Don't you know the way yourself?" she evaded.
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