The latter's skin was somewhat dark, and his coarse black hair and
athletic figure hinted at a strain of Indian blood. As a matter of fact,
his mother was a French-Canadian _Metis_, and he was born in a skin tent
in the North. His clothes were cut in the latest fashion, and he looked
self-confident; but he moved unsteadily and his face was flushed.

"Had a gay time, Mr. Drummond?" Stormont asked.

"You bet!" said the other, giving the clerk a patronizing smile. "This
young fellow is surely a sport. Promised half the girls up-town he'd
take them a sleigh-ride and broke a big lamp in the pool-room."

"You broke the lamp," Watson interrupted, with a glance at his employer.

"Oh, well," said Drummond, "perhaps I did. I certainly put the marker
out. He allowed I couldn't hold my cue and was going to cut the cloth.
Why, I'd play any man in this old town for fifty dollars!"

"And beat him!" said Stormont. "Watson told me how you play. But won't
you sit down and take a smoke."

"I surely will," Drummond replied, and pulling up an easy chair, put
his wet snow-boots on Stormont's bed, after which he lighted a cigar.
"Now," he resumed, "if you have anything to say to me, you can go
ahead."

"You're a store clerk, I think. It's a poor job making a profit for
another man and Watson tells me you are enterprising. How'd you like to
run a store of your own? If you could put up the stock to start with, I
reckon you'd soon make good."