JOE MARKS.
Groceries and Family Supplies.
Joe stood behind the counter; there were two other men in the store, one tall, gaunt, of the average Western type, with a broad-brimmed, soft felt hat on his head, and in the costume of a hunter; he looked rough, but honest and reliable, and that was more than could be said of the other. He may best be described as a tramp, a man who looked averse to labor of any kind, a man without a settled business or home, who picked up a living as he could, caring less for food than for drink, and whose mottled face indicated frequent potations of whisky.
Ernest looked at this man as he entered. He didn't remember to have met him before, nor was there anything to attract him in his appearance.
"How are you, Ernest?" said Joe Marks, cordially. "How's Uncle Peter?"
"He's pretty bad, Joe. He thinks he's going to die."
"Not so bad as that, surely."
"Yes, I guess he's right. He's very weak."
"Well, well, he's a good age. How old is he?"
"I don't know. He never told me."
"He's well on to seventy, I'm thinking. But what can I do for you?"