Full of his idea, Tom walked into the store, where he found Yetmore very busy serving customers, for it was near closing time, and to an inquiry as to what he wanted, he replied:
“Nothing just now, thank ye. I’ll just mosey around and take a look at things.”
To this Yetmore nodded assent; for though he and the miner had no affection for each other, they were outwardly on good terms, and it was no unusual thing for Tom to come into the store.
Connor “moseyed” accordingly, and kept on “moseying” until he reached the back of the building, and there, standing upright against the rear wall, was the barrel, and beside it, mounted on a chair, a putty-faced boy, a stranger to Tom, who was busy boring a hole in the top of it.
“Trade pretty brisk?” inquired Connor, sauntering up.
“You bet,” replied the youth, laconically.
“What does ‘668’ stand for?” asked the miner, tapping the top of the barrel with his finger.
“That’s the number of the barrel,” was the reply. “The wholesalers down in San Remo always cut a number in their barrels when they send ’em out.”
“Your boss must be a right smart business man to run a ’stablishment like this,” remarked Tom, after a pause, glancing about the store.