"On the whole, I guess not," Watson replied. "It's hard to hit the proper mark, but I reckon he's just drunk enough."
"Then bring him up," said Stormont, and in a few minutes Watson came back with a young man.
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."