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!"

Drummond imagined the work would occupy him for an hour and might spoil
his clothes. Besides, if he gave way, his employer might make fresh
encroachments on his evenings, and he thought the fellow wanted to goad
him to revolt.

"No, sir," he said. "It's closing time. I'm going to quit."