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“Utah ought to be a fine place for a fellow with a name like that,” said Rodney gravely. “What did you say it was?”

“His name? Pringle Stenstream.”

“My, this is sure one fine place for names, isn’t it?” laughed the boy.

The clerk blinked as he washed the glass. “Names? How do you mean? What’s the matter with the names?”

“Oh, they’re all right, but sort of—of unusual.”

“Stenstream ain’t unusual around here,” responded the clerk a trifle resentfully. “There’s stacks of ’em in New York State. It’s as common as—as my own name.”

“What’s that?” asked Rodney.

“Doolittle,” was the calm reply.

“Oh, is this your store?”

“Nope, it’s my uncle’s. I work for him. Gosh!”

“What’s the matter?” asked Rodney, following the clerk’s gaze through the window.

“There’s that Watson feller coming, and he always wants chocolate and I haven’t got any.”

“Give him strawberry,” suggested Rodney, amused by the clerk’s expression of alarm. “Are those Maple Hill fellows?”

The clerk nodded gloomily. “Yes, and that Watson feller’s the worst of the lot. The rest of ’em ain’t so bad.”