“Fur me? Gorry—if I jest had that lamp, you’d see me rubbin’ out somethin’ fur me, all right. I’ve been wantin’ ter send home a box ter the old folks—’way back in Maine, ye know. Jiminy Christmas, man, there’d be no end ter the black silk dresses and gold-headed canes an’ fixin’s an’ fur-belows that I’d rub out an’ send to ’em!”
Hustler Joe laughed; then something came into his throat and choked the laugh back.
“But all this isn’t for you, Jim,” he remonstrated.
“Huh? Not fur me? Fur heaven’s sake, man, who is it fur, then?”
The miner laughed again and slid off the counter.
“You’ve got quite a store, Jim. Ever wish you had more room?” he asked abruptly.
Pedler Jim not only nibbled at the bait, but swallowed it.
“Well, ye see, I’m goin’ ter have the place next door when I git money enough and then I’ll jine ’em together. That’ll be somethin’ worth while,” he continued.
Hustler Joe easily kept him talking on this fascinating theme a full ten minutes, then he prepared to take his leave.
“Let’s see,” he mused aloud, “you came from Maine, you say. About where—the town, I mean?”