Eureka Daily Sentinel

Wanted To Trade.

A bleary-eyed, red-nosed disciple of alcohol, with a breath like a glue factory, and a general air of seediness, dropped into Clark's store yesterday and with a curt, business-like way, asked the price of flour per barrel. Mac. took a look at the fellow, and ciphered him down as a tramp who would probably invest in 25 cents worth of crackers and cheese, but answered very civilly that it was ruling at $16.

"Well, get out your order book; I want to buy a bill of goods," responded Rummy. "About 500 pounds of breadstuffs will be near the mark."

Mac. sharpened his pencil and put it down, wondering, meanwhile, who this bloated millionaire in disguise could be. The fellow ran through a list of articles, mentioning bacon, tea, coffee, ham, etc., until the page figured up about $200. Then he got down to his work, and wanted to know if the institution kept on hand a really good article of whisky. Mac., instead of leading the way to the barrel, and asking the customer to sample it, merely mentioned over half a dozen favorite brands, the mere allusion to which made Rummy's mouth water. He anticipated an invitation to the rear of the store, but his measure had been taken, and all further efforts in that direction were futile.

"How about the flavor?" he inquired. "I am a little particular about my regular beverage."

Mac. assured him it was way up.

"Smooth?" was the next question.

"Oil ain't a circumstance."

"High proof?"

"So it has proved to be."

"Got a five gallon demijohn?"

"Store full of 'em."

"Can I see a sample of that ere liquor?"

"Yes, sir. When you pay for this bill of goods that you have ordered, I will throw in the whisky."

The fellow looked at Mac. sadly, scratched his head and said he rather thought he could do better down at Sadler's. He backed out of the store, and the boys who had been watching his little game, smiled audibly. Mac. is a little angry over the spoiling of a page of his book, and there are two black lines clear across that order.

Rummy joined another rounder over on the corner, and said in tremendous tones, "she wouldn't work, Jimmy. That clerk over there is as hard hearted as a Cardiff giant. Blast the luck. I'm as dry as a lime-burner's wig. Let's go spar Hank Knight; I voted for him, and I think that will fetch him."