"Yes,
I guess I've got some somewhere round here." He was
stooping under and behind his counter and his voice came
up from below. "I've got some somewhere--" And then as
if talking to himself he murmured from behind a pile of
cardboard boxes, "I saw some Tuesday."
Had I gone across the street to the brilliant premises
of the Cut Rate Pharmaceutical where they burn electric
light by the meterfull I should no sooner have said "tooth
brush," than one of the ten clerks in white hospital
jackets would have poured a glittering assortment over
the counter--prophylactic, lactic and every other sort.
But I had turned in, I don't know why, to the little
store across the way.
"Here, I guess these must be tooth brushes," he said,
reappearing at the level of the counter with a flat box
in his hand. They must have been presumably, or have once
been,--at some time long ago.
"They're tooth brushes all right," he said, and started
looking over them with an owner's interest.
"What is the price of them?" I asked.
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