They're not.
MINER
I suppose you'll say they're empty.
CLERK
They're not. But what little grub's in them belongs to the sour-doughs who filed their orders last spring and summer before ever you thought of coming into the country. And even the sourdoughs are scaled down, cut clean in half. Now shut up. I don't want to hear any more from you. You newcomers needn't think you're going to run this country, because you ain't.
(Turning his hack on Miner.)
Damned cheechawker!
MINER
(Breaking down and showing fear, not of Clerk, but of famine.)
But good heavens, man, what am I to do? I haven't fifty pounds of flour for the whole winter.