When Bubbles entered Blicker's drug-store, the city clocks were striking
a quarter to twelve, but the place was still brightly lighted, and at
the soda-counter a young man was treating his flame to a glass of
chocolate vanilla ice-cream.
Bubbles marched to the prescription counter, and began to unwrap a
bloody handkerchief from his left hand. Then he began to clear his
throat. This brought Mr. Blicker from a region of mortar pestles, empty
pill-boxes, and glass retorts.
"What you want?" he asked aggressively.
"I want me thumb bandaged."
"You cut him--eh?"