It was to the store that Ernest bent his steps. It was a one-story structure, as were most of the buildings in the village. There was a sign over the door which read: JOE MARKS. Groceries and Family Supplies. Joe stood behind the counter; there were two other men in the store, one tall, gaunt, of the average Western type, with a broad-brimmed, soft felt hat on his head, and in the costume of a hunter; he looked rough, but honest and reliable, and that was more than could be said of the other. He may best be described as a tramp, a man who looked averse to labor of any kind, a man without a settled business or home, who picked up a living as he could, caring less for food than for drink, and whose mottled face indicated frequent potations of whisky. Ernest looked at this man as he entered. He didn't remember to have met him before, nor was there anything to attract him in his appearance. "How are you, Ernest?" said Joe Marks, cordially. "How's Uncle Peter?" "He's pretty bad, Joe. He thinks he's going to die." "Not so bad as that, surely." "Yes, I guess he's right. He's very weak." "Well, well, he's a good age. How old is he?" "I don't know. He never told me." "He's well on to seventy, I'm thinking. But what can I do for you?" "You may fill this bottle, Joe; Uncle Peter is so weak he thinks it will put new life in him." "So it will, Ernest; there's nothing like good whisky to make an old man strong, or a young man, for that matter." It may be easy to see that Joe did not believe in total abstinence. "I don't drink, myself!" said Ernest, replying to the last part of Joe's remark. "There's nothing like whisky," remarked the tramp in a hoarse voice. "You've drunk your share, I'm thinking," said Luke Robbins, the tall hunter. "Not yet," returned the tramp. "I haven't had my share yet. There's lots of people that has drunk more'n me." "Why haven't you drunk your share? You hadn't no objections, I reckon." "I hadn't the money," said the tramp, sadly. "I've never had much money. I ain't lucky." "If you had had more money, you'd maybe not be living now. You'd have drunk yourself to death." "If I ever do commit suicide, that's the way I'd like to die," said the tramp. Joe filled the bottle from a keg behind the counter and handed it to Ernest. The aroma of the whisky was diffused about the store, and the tramp sniffed it in eagerly. It stimulated his desire to indulge his craving for drink. As Ernest, with the bottle in his hand, prepared to leave, the tramp addressed him. "Say, young feller, ain't you goin' to shout?" "What do you mean?" "Ain't you goin' to treat me and this gentleman?" indicating Luke Robbins. "No," answered Ernest, shortly. "I don't buy it as drink, but as medicine." "I need medicine," urged the tramp, with a smile. "I don't," said the hunter. "Don't you bother about us, my boy. If we want whisky we can buy it ourselves."