and I followed you. Don't stare at me like that, you'd have done the same. Have you got that flask yet?"
"Yes," Carleton answered mechanically, and as mechanically produced it from the drawer of his desk.
"Ever examine it particularly?"
"Examine it?"
"I guess that answers my question. I was afraid you might, and I wanted to ask you for it that day, only I thought you'd think it mighty funny, refuse, and well—well, get to looking it over on your own hook. Will you give it here for a minute?"
Carleton handed it over silently.
Dahleen took it, pulled off the lower half that served as drinking cup, laid his finger on the inside rim, and returned it to the super.
Carleton moved nearer to the light—then his face paled. It was Coogan's flask! The inscription, a little dulled, in fine engraving, was still plain enough. "To Chick from Jim, on the occasion of his wedding." Carleton's hand was trembling as he set it down.
"My God!" he said hoarsely. "It was Coogan who was drunk that night—not you."
"I figured that's the way you'd read it, you or any other railroad man," said Dahleen. "It was him or me and one of us drunk, in the eyes of any of the boys on the road, from the minute that flask showed up. There was only one thing would have made you believe different, and I couldn't tell you—then. I'd have taken the same stand you did. But you're wrong. Coogan wasn't drunk that night—he never touched a drop. I
