There was near the corner of Pump (now Canal) and Second (now Forsyth) streets, a druggist store, kept by a physician named Waterman, with whom Burr had formed an acquaintance while at college.
Waterman was a young man of twenty-seven years, six feet high, and well proportioned; a noble-hearted, generous fellow, and a great admirer of the fair sex.
Burr went directly to the shop of Waterman, and found him alone.
After shaking hands, and some wise remarks about the weather, Burr said suddenly:
"Waterman, you ought to take a wife."
"I will reply to you in the words of another," said the other, laughing. "Whose wife shall I take?"
"The wife of a fine fellow named Keating," answered Burr.
"Indeed! and suppose that Mr. Keating objects to the arrangement?"
"That he will not be likely to do," returned Burr, "as he lies some six or eight feet below the surface of the ground."
"Dead! then his wife is a widow, you know. Well, Burr, you must acknowledge that it is not pleasant to have your wife's former husband thrown in your teeth upon every trivial occasion."
"Fear not. She won't do it. I'll guarantee that you'll be the gainer, both in practice and in the enjoyment of life."
"Hum!"
"Fact!"
"Then marry her yourself."
"Our ages do not suit. Nay, I am in earnest. You can have no objection to see her."
"Not the least."
"Then put on your hat."
"And leave my boy to eat up the liquorice?"
"What's the use of keeping a boy if you cannot leave your shop?"
"I set him to work with the pestle and mortar."
"Where is the drawer in which your liquorice is kept?"
"Here."
Burr wrote on a strip of paper the word POISON, in large letters, and stuck it on the front of the box.
"Can your boy read?"
"Yes."
"Then call him. Your liquorice is safe. Put on your hat, and come and see a woman who is sweeter and far more tempting than your liquorice."
"Bah! no one shall choose a wife for me."
But Burr could perceive that Waterman's curiosity was aroused, and that he placed more faith in his judgment than he was willing to confess.
