“Mebbe ye don’t want my money,” hazarded the miner.
No answer.
“Oh, well, I can take it back,” and Somers shuffled noisily off his seat.
Pedler Jim wheeled about and came down the store with his small black eyes blazing.
“Jiminy Christmas, man! If you ain’t enough ter try a saint! I’m blest if I can git mad at ye, though, fur all yer pesterin’ ways. Now what in thunder—” The storekeeper’s jaw dropped, and his mouth fell open idiotically as his eyes rested on the greenbacks. “Well, I’ll be jiggered!” he murmured again, and clutched the money in his claw-like fingers.
At that moment the outer door opened to admit a tall, broad-shouldered miner wearing a slouch hat well over his eyes. In a trice Pedler Jim was the obsequious merchant behind the counter.
The newcomer gave his order in a low voice and stood motionless while the hunchback busied himself in filling it.
“Anything else?” suggested Jim wistfully, as he pushed a small package toward him.
“Oh, I guess that’ll do for this time,” returned the man, picking up his purchase and motioning toward a dollar bill on the counter.
Pedler Jim looked up quickly and something like tenderness came into his eyes.