Shanley blinked. It appeared that the super was as intimately posted on the events of the preceding evening as he was himself. The remark suggested an inspection of the fists in question. They were grimy and dirty, and most of the knuckles were barked; closed, they resembled a pair of miniature battering-rams.
"Pretty good," he admitted modestly.
"H'm! About that twenty. You intend to pay it back, don't you?"
"I'm not a thief, whatever else I am," snapped Shanley. "Of course, I'll pay it back. You needn't worry."
"When?" insisted Carleton coolly.
"When I get a job."
"I'll give you one," said Carleton—"Royal" Carleton the boys called him, the squarest man that ever held down a division. "I'll give you one where your fists will be kept out of mischief, and where you can't hit the high joints quite as hard as you did last night. But I want you to understand this, Shanley, and understand it good and plenty and once for all, it's your last chance. You made a fool of yourself last night, but you acted like a man yesterday—that's why you're getting a new deal. You're going up to Glacier Cañon with McCann on the construction work. You won't find it anyways luxurious, and maybe you'll like McCann and maybe you won't—he's been squealing for a white man to live with. You can help him boss Italians at one seventy-five a day, and you can go up on Twenty-nine this morning, that'll take care of your transportation. What do you say?"
