The general store was empty, and Drummond, leaning on the counter, frowned as he glanced at the clock. It was a few minutes after the time for closing and he had been busily occupied all day. Besides, he had an engagement at the pool-room and thought he would be late. If so, a man whom he knew he could beat would probably begin a game with somebody else, and he would miss an opportunity of winning two or three dollars. This was annoying, because Drummond needed the money, but he had other grounds for feeling dissatisfied. Keeping store was monotonous and rather humiliating work that left one very little time for amusement. He could drive a fast horse as well as other young men he met up town, play a clever card game, and beat his friends at pool. His talents were obviously wasted in measuring dry-goods and weighing flour. Moreover, since meeting Stormont he had been extravagant and got into debt. There was no need to be economical when he had been promised a share in a rich mining claim. Then he wondered with misgivings what the farmer who had gone into the back office was talking about, and hearing angry voices, felt sorry he had made some alterations in the man's order. Certain stale goods carried a commission if the salesman could work them off, but the thing needed tact and a knowledge of the customer's temper. Drummond feared he had been imprudent. In the meantime, he looked about the store with a feeling of disgust. The long room, with its cracked, board walls and dusty floor, was uncomfortably warm, and smelt of hot iron, dry-goods, and old cheese. Drummond had neglected to regulate the draught when he filled the rusty stove, and now felt that one could not expect a spirited young man to spend his days in such a place. Anyhow, it was after closing time, and sitting on the counter he lighted a cigarette, letting it stick to his under lip. This was the latest fashion and gave one a sporting look. Soon after he began to smoke, the farmer came out of the office. "You can send for the truck when you like; I've no use for goods like that," he said. "Next time you pack me a dud lot I'll cut out your account. If you and the sporting guy who's sitting on your counter thought me a sucker, I guess I've put you wise!" He went down the steps into the street, and the lean, hard-faced storekeeper turned to Drummond with an ominous frown. "Get off that counter! You make me tired to look at you, with your dude clothes and a cigar-root hanging out of your mouth. Throw the blamed thing away and put up the canned stuff you left about." Drummond felt tempted to refuse, but his employer's eye was on him and he obeyed sullenly. "When you've finished, you can clean up that row of shelves," the other resumed. "Then stack the flour and sugar bags where they're kept. Guess you reckoned to leave the truck all night where the transfer man dumped it. If you can't serve a customer, I'll see you keep the store straight!"