"'Course it was. Wrote it out myself, every bit of it."
"Well,—you're a rotten writer, Mr. Clark."
"Oh!—can it. What kind of a tin-pot way of doin' business was that? What was this damned place started for anyway, if not for the convenience of the Camps?"
"I suppose you think I ought to know your writing?" I asked. "Well,—Mr. Clark, even if I had known it, I would not have accepted the order as it was. My positive instructions are that all camp orders have to be filled only on receipt of a stamped and signed document on the Company's business form for that purpose. And that's the only way goods will go out from here, whether for Joe Clark or for any one else."
"And what if I ain't got an order with me now? Guess you'll turn me down same as you did the others yesterday?"
"That is just what I would have to do."
"The hell you would!" He put his hand into his pocket and brought out some papers, one of which he threw on the counter. "There's your blasted order. Get a wiggle on, for I ain't here on a pleasure jaunt,—not by a damn sight. I'll be back in an hour for them goods."
"Better make it an hour and a half. It's a big order and it will not be ready a minute sooner."
"Gosh!" he growled, as he strode out, "some store-clerk,—-I don't think."
I filled the requirements of Camp No. 2 to the best of my ability, packing up the goods and making everything as secure as necessary for the boat trip. I had the stuff all piled nicely on the veranda and was sitting on the steps contemplating and admiring the job, when the dinghy came back with Joe Clark in the stern as before.