Follow the Saint

of it into a paper bag.

' 'Ere, I don't want all that,' yelped the woman. 'Three pennyworth, I said!'

Simon pushed the bag over the counter.

'As an old and valued customer, please accept the extra quantity with Mr Osbett's compliments,' he said generously. 'Threepence is the price to you, madam, and a bottle of cough mixture thrown in. Oh, yes, and you'd better give young Alf some cod-liver oil ——'

He piled merchandise towards her until she grabbed up as much as she could carry and palpitated nervously out into the street. Simon grinned to himself and hoped he had not overdone it. If the news of his sensational bargain sale spread around the district, he would have his hands full.

During the lull that followed he tried to take a survey of the stock. He would be safe enough with proprietary goods, but if anyone asked for some more complicated medicine he would have to be careful. He had no grudge to work off against the neighbourhood at large; which was almost a pity.

The next customer required nothing more difficult than aspirin, and left the shop in a kind of daze when the Saint insisted on supplying a bottle of a hundred tablets for the modest price of twopence.

Simon took a trip upstairs and found that his three prizes had still failed to progress beyond the stage of half conscious meanings and a spasmodic twitching of the lower limbs. He returned downstairs to attend to a small snotty-nosed urchin who was asking for a shilling tin of baby food. Simon blandly handed her the largest size he could see, and told her that Mr Osbett was making special reductions that morning.

'Coo!' said the small child, and added a bag of peardrops to the order.

Simon poured out a pound of them—'No charge for that, Delilah—Mr Osbett is giving peardrops away for an adver­tisement'—and the small child sprinted out as if it was afraid of waking up before it got home.

The Saint lighted another cigarette and waited thought­fully. Supplying everybody who came in with astounding quantities of Mr Osbett's goods at cut-throat prices was amusing enough, admittedly, but it was not getting him any­where. And yet a hunch that was growing larger every minute kept him standing behind the counter.

Maybe it wasn't such a waste of time. . . . The package of Miracle Tea in which he had found fifteen hundred testi­monials to the lavish beneficence of his guardian angel had come from that shop; presumably it had been intended for some special customer; presumably also it was not the only eccentric transaction that had taken place there, and there was no reason why it should be the last. Maybe no other miracles of the same kind were timed to take place that day; and yet...

Mr Osbett's boxes of extra special toilet soap, usually priced at seven and sixpence, were reduced for the benefit of a charming young damsel to a shilling each. The charming damsel was so impressed that she tentatively inquired the price of a handsome bottle of bath salts.

'What, this ?' said the Saint, taking the flagon down and wrapping it up. 'As a special bargain this morning, sweet­heart, we're letting it go for sixpence.'

It went for sixpence, quickly. The Saint handed over her change without encouraging further orders—as a matter of fact, he was rather anxious to get rid of the damsel, in spite of her charm and obvious inclination to be friendly, for a man with a thin weasel face under a dirty tweed cap already over­due for the dustbin had come in, and was earnestly inspecting a showcase full of safety razors and other articles which are less widely advertised. Quite obviously the man was not anxious to draw attention to himself while there was another customer in the shop; and while there was at least one perfectly commonplace explanation for that kind of bashful-ness the Saint felt a spectral tingle of expectation slide over his scalp as the girl went out and Weasel Face angled over to the counter.

'I haven't seen you before,' he stated.

His manner