Seizing hold of the first man who passed him, he pointed it out, crying: "What building is that ?" "That?
That's The Whispering Pines, the country club-house, where--" He didn't wait for the end of the sentence, but plunged into the thickest group of people he could find, with a determination greater than ever to turn those bottles over before he ate.
His manner of going about this was characteristic.

Lounging about the stalls until he found just the sort of old codger he wanted, he scraped up an acquaintance with him on the spot, and succeeded in making himself so agreeable that when the old fellow sauntered back to the stables to take a look at his horse, Sweetwater accompanied him.

Hanging round the stable-door, he kept up his chatter, while sizing up the bottles heaped in the cart at his side.

He even allowed himself to touch one or two in an absent way, and was meditating an accidental upset of the whole collection when a woman he had not seen before, thrust her head out of a rear window, shouting sharply: "Leave those bottles alone.

They're waiting for the old clothes man.