Poor old Pullet was so set back his brains were sort of scrambled, like a pan of eggs.

"Er-er, Mr. Jacobs," he says, "I am very sorry, extremely sorry, but we are all out just at this minute. I fully intended to order some today, but I—I guess I must have forgotten it."

Jacobs couldn’t seem to make any more out of this than I did.

"Out?" he says, wonderin’. "Out? Who’s out? What’s out? I guess I’ve dropped the key or lost the combination. What’s the answer?"

"Why, butter," says Pullet, apologizin’. "You asked for butter, didn’t you? As I was sayin’, I should have ordered some today, but—"

Jim Henry waved his hands. "Sh-h," he says, "don’t mention it. Forget it. If I’d wanted butter in this emporium I should have asked for somethin’ else. I’ve been givin’ this mart of trade some attention for the past three weeks and I judge that its specialty is bein’ able to supply what ain’t wanted. I hinted that you two needed a butter-in. All right. I’m the goat. Now if you’ll kindly give me your attention, I’ll elucidate."

We give attention. After he’d "elucidated" for five minutes we’d have given him our clothes. You never heard such a mess of language as that Chicago man turned loose. He talked and talked and talked. He knew all about the store and the business, and what he didn’t know he guessed and guessed right. He knew about Pullet and his buyin’ the place, about my goin’ in as a silent partner—though that nobody was supposed to know. He knew the shebang wa’n’t payin’ and, also and moreover, he knew why. And he had the remedy buttoned up in his jacket—the name of it was James Henry Jacobs.

"Gentlemen," he says, "I’m a specialist. I’m a doctor of sick business. Ever since my medicine man ordered me to quit the giddy metropolis and the Grand Central Department Store, where I was third assistant manager, I’ve been driftin’ about seekin’ a nice, quiet hamlet and an opportunity. Here’s the ham and, if you say the word, here’s the opportunity. This shop is in a decline; it’s got creepin’ paralysis and locomotive hang-back-tia. There’s only one thing that can change the funeral to a silver weddin’—that’s to call in Old Doctor Jacobs. Here he is, with his pocket full of testimonials. Now you listen."

We’d been listenin’—’twas by long odds the easiest thing to do—and we kept right on. He had testimonials—he showed ’em to us—and they took an oath to his bein’ honest and the eighth business 

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