came to a breathless halt. "Now perhaps you will allow me to say a word. It may not have occurred to you that I sent for you in order that I might do the talking—h'm?"
This really seemed to require no answer, so Shanley made none.
"Yesterday," went on Carleton, "you came to me for a job, and I gave you one, didn't I?"
"Yes," admitted Shanley, licking his lips.
"Just so," said Carleton mildly. "I hired you then. I fire you now. Pretty quick work, what?"
"You're the doctor," said Shanley evenly enough. He had, for all his logic, expected no more nor less—he was too firm a believer in his own particular and exclusive brand of luck. "You're the doctor," he repeated. "There's a matter of twenty bucks"
"I was coming to that," interrupted Carleton; "but I'm glad you mentioned it. I'll be honest enough to admit that I hardly expected you would. A man who acts as you've acted doesn't generally—h'm? "
"I told you 'twasn't my fault," said Shanley stubbornly.
Carleton reached for his pipe, and struck a match, surveying Shanley the while with a gaze that was half perplexed, half quizzical.
"You're a queer card," he remarked at last. "Why don't you cut out the booze?"
"'Twasn't my fault, I tell you," persisted Shanley.
"You're a pretty good hand with your fists, what?" said Carleton irrelevantly. "Kelly's no slouch himself."
