He thumped his fist on the counter,—"and anything I have a hand in, my word goes,—understand."
"You are a lucky man," I answered. "But your word won't go here unless it coincides with mine, Mister Clark.
"Now," I added briskly, "tell me your business, or get out. I have other work to do."
He raised his hand and leaned across the counter, as if to clutch me by the throat, and a terrible paw of a hand it was, too. But, evidently, he thought better of it.
Not that I fancied for a moment that he was afraid of me at all, because I knew quite well that he was not.
He sat down on a box and watched me closely, sizing me up at every angle as I busied myself adjusting some tins on the shelves that were in no way in need of adjustment.
"Guess you think I pay men to take picnics for the good of their health down to this one-horse outfit."
"I have not wasted any thoughts on you at all, so far, Mr. Clark," I replied.
"Why'n the hell didn't you fill my order yesterday?"
"Was it your order?"