The next day he bartered for a tiny piece of land fronting the main street. When he had wheeled his old cart into proper position upon it, he busied himself some time with a bit of board and a paint pot, finally producing a rough sign bearing the single word “Store.” This creation he nailed with much satisfaction upon the front of the dashboard, then sat down on one of the thills to wait for a customer. Perhaps it was the oddity of the thing; or perhaps there was something in the deformed little body that appealed to the strong-limbed, straight-backed miners; or perhaps it was the wonderful knowledge of healing herbs and soothing lotions that Pedler Jim possessed—perhaps it was a little of all three. At all events, the new store prospered amazingly so that in a year its owner bought more land, trundled the old cart to the rear, and erected a small cabin on his lot. This, in turn, gave place to a good-sized frame building bearing the imposing gilt-lettered sign: JAMES A. POWERS, _Skinner Valley Emporium_. The hunchback rolled this high-sounding title under his tongue with keen relish, but it was still “the store” to the boys, and its owner was only “Pedler Jim.” Bill Somers shifted his position on the end of the counter and poked a teasing finger at the agitated mass of wings and legs around the molasses drop. The storekeeper grinned appreciatively and broke the silence: “Say, who’s yer new man?” “Blest if I know.” “Well, he’s got a name, hain’t he?” “Mebbe he has—then again, mebbe he hain’t.” “But don’t ye call him nothin’?” “Oh, we _call_ him ‘Hustler Joe’; but that ain’t no name to hitch a grocery bill on to—eh, Jim?” The little hunchback slid from his stool and brought his fist down hard on the counter. “That’s jest the point! He don’t git much, but what he does git he pays fur—spot cash. An’ that’s more’n I can say of some of the rest of ye,” he added, with a reproachful look. Bill laughed and stretched his long legs. “I s’pose, now, that’s a dig at me, Jim.” “I didn’t call no names.” “I know yer lips didn’t, but yer eyes did. Say, how much do I owe, anyhow?” With manifest alacrity Jim darted over to the pine box that served for a desk. “There ain’t no hurry, Jim,” drawled Somers, with a slow smile. “I wouldn’t put ye out fur nothin’!” The storekeeper did not hear. He was rapidly turning the greasy, well-thumbed pages of the account-book before him. “It’s jest twenty dollars and fourteen cents, now, Bill,” he said, his brown forefinger pausing after a run down one of the pages. “Ye hain’t paid nothin’ since Christmas, ye know,” he added significantly. “Well,” sighed Bill, with another slow smile, “mebbe ’twouldn’t do no harm if I ponied up a bit!” And he plunged both hands into his trousers pockets. Pedler Jim smiled and edged nearer, while Bill drew out a handful of change and laboriously picked out a dime and four pennies.