The men of the mountains seldom hurry on any mission. Their walk is a
slow and foot-sure tread. When they come to the store, if only for a
plug of tobacco, they remain with John Marion for a social hour or more.
Their purchase is an incident, the last act before they depart.
It is rare during the daylight hours that someone is not sitting on the
porch, or in one of the chairs of the row that skirts the show-cased
counter just within the door, or somewhere upon the open horseshoe kegs
that border the floor of the counter opposite. They are waiting to hear
if anything new has happened, for all the news of the neighborhood comes
to the store. The storekeeper is sure to know whether the stranger seen
passing along the road in the morning stopped at the York's, or went on
to Possum Trot or to Byrdstown.
The very commodities upon the shelves and counters of that store are in
friendly confusion. Canned meats, pepper, candy, soap and
chewing-tobacco may be found in one partition; while next to them,
groceries, shotgun-shells, powder and chinaware are in a position of
prominence according to the needs of the past purchaser. In the rear,
piled high, are overalls and "store clothes," hats and shoes.
But the counter, facing the shelves of dress-goods for the women, is
free of obstructions, and its surface is worn smooth and polished by the
years of unrolling of bolts of cloth, while at every quarter-yard along
the counter's rear edge is a shining brass tack-head--the yardstick of
the department.
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