The Blue Light Drug Store is downtown， between theBowery and First Avenue， where the distance betweenthe two streets is the shortest. The Blue Light does notconsider that pharmacy is a thing of bric-a-brac， scent andice-cream soda. If you ask it for pain-killer it will not giveyou a bonbon.
The Blue Light scorns the labour-saving arts of modernpharmacy. It macerates its opium and percolates its ownlaudanum and paregoric. To this day pills are made behindits tall prescription desk—pills rolled out on its own pilltile，divided with a spatula， rolled with the finger andthumb， dusted with calcined magnesia and delivered inlittle round pasteboard pill-boxes. The store is on a cornerabout which coveys of ragged-plumed， hilarious childrenplay and become candidates for the cough drops andsoothing syrups that wait for them inside.
Ikey Schoenstein was the night clerk of the Blue Lightand the friend of his customers. Thus it is on the EastSide， where the heart of pharmacy is not glacé. There， asit should be， the druggist is a counsellor， a confessor， anadviser， an able and willing missionary and mentor whoselearning is respected， whose occult wisdom is veneratedand whose medicine is often poured， untasted， into thegutter. Therefore Ikey’s corniform， be-spectacled nose andnarrow， knowledge-bowed figure was well known in thevicinity of the Blue Light， and his advice and notice weremuch desired.
Ikey roomed and breakfasted at Mrs. Riddle’s twosquares away. Mrs. Riddle had a daughter named Rosy. Thecircumlocution has been in vain—you must have guessedit—Ikey adored Rosy. She tinctured all his thoughts； shewas the compound extract of all that was chemically pureand officinal—the dispensatory contained nothing equal toher. But Ikey was timid， and his hopes remained insolublein the menstruum of his backwardness and fears. Behindhis counter he was a superior being， calmly consciousof special knowledge and worth； outside he was a weakkneed，purblind， motorman-cursed rambler， with ill-fittingclothes stained with chemicals and smelling of socotrinealoes and valerianate of ammonia.
The fly in Ikey’s ointment （thrice welcome， pat trope！）was Chunk McGowan.
Mr. McGowan was also striving to catch the brightsmiles tossed about by Rosy. But he was no outfielder asIkey was； he picked them off the bat. At the same timehe was Ikey’s friend and customer， and often droppedin at the Blue Light Drug Store to have a bruise paintedwith iodine or get a cut rubber-plastered after a pleasantevening spent along the Bowery.
One afternoon McGowan drifted in in his silent， easyway， and sat， comely， smooth-faced， hard， indomitable，good-natured， upon a stool.
“Ikey，” said he， when his friend had fetched his mortar andsat opposite， grinding gum benzoin to a powder， “get busywith your ear. It’s drugs for me if you’ve got the line I need.”
Ikey scanned the countenance of Mr. McGowan for theusual evidences of conflict， but found none.
“Take your coat off，” he ordered. “I guess already thatyou have been stuck in the ribs with a knife. I have manytimes told you those Dagoes would do you up.”
Mr. McGowan smiled. “Not them，” he said. “Notany Dagoes. But you’ve located the diagnosis all rightenough—it’s under my coat， near the ribs. Say！ Ikey—Rosyand me are goin’ to run away and get married to-night.”
Ikey’s left forefinger was doubled over the edge of themortar， holding it steady. He gave it a wild rap with thepestle， but felt it not. Meanwhile Mr. McGowan’s smilefaded to a look of perplexed gloom.
“That is，” he continued， “if she keeps in the notion untilthe time comes. We’ve been layin’ pipes for the getawayfor two weeks. One day she says she will； the same evenin’
she says nixy. We’ve agreed on to-night， and Rosy’s stuckto the affirmative this time for two whole days. But it’sfive hours yet till the time， and I’m afraid she’ll stand meup when it comes to the scratch.”
“You said you wanted drugs，” remarked Ikey.
Mr. McGowan looked ill at ease and harassed—a conditionopposed to his usual line of demeanour. He made a patentmedicinealmanac into a roll and fitted it with unprofitablecarefulness about his finger.
“I wouldn’t have this double handicap make a false startto-night for a million，” he said. “I’ve got a little flat up inHarlem all ready， with chrysanthemums on the table anda kettle ready to boil. And I’ve engaged a pulpit pounderto be ready at his house for us at 9.30. It’s got to comeoff. And if Rosy don’t change her mind again！” —Mr.
McGowan ceased， a prey to his doubts.
“I don’t see then yet，” said Ikey， shortly， “what makes itthat you talk of drugs， or what I can be doing about it.”