Shanley couldn't say anything. He looked at the super and blinked; then he looked at his fists speculatively—and blinked.
Carleton was scribbling on a piece of paper.
"All right, h'm?" he said, looking up and handing over the paper. "There's an order on Dinkelman, only get some one else to show you the way this time, and take the other side of the street going up. Understand?"
"Mr. Carleton," Shanley blurted out, "if ever I get full again, you"
"I will!" said Carleton grimly. "I'll fire you so hard and fast you'll be out of breath for a month. Don't make any mistake about that. No man gets more than two chances with me. The next time you get drunk will finish your railroad career for keeps, I promise you that."
"Yes," said Shanley humbly; and then, after a moment's nervous hesitation: "About Kelly, Mr. Carleton. I don't want to get him in bad on this. You see, it was this way. He left early—that's what started the fight. I called him a—a—quitter—or something like that."
"H'm, yes; or something like that," repeated Carleton dryly. "So I believe. I've had a talk with Kelly. You needn't let the incomprehensible workings of that conscience of yours prick you any on his account. Kelly knows when to stop. His record is O. K. in this office. Kelly doesn't get drunk. If he did, he'd be fired just as fast as you will be if it ever happens again."
