and ill at ease than on the former occasion. He stammered once or twice in an effort to begin—and his effort was utter failure.
Regan eyed him in profound distrust. Once in four years wasn't so much, and after all, even Spitzer, now that the shock was over, might be expected to do that. But again in a month—and from Spitzer! Something was wrong—perhaps Carleton was right.
"Well," he snapped, "you got your raise. Ain't you satisfied?"
Spitzer nodded dumbly.
"Well, then, what's the matter with you if you're satisfied?" exploded the master mechanic.
"I want to get" the last word trailed off into tremulous, quavering incoherency.
"You want to get what?" growled Regan. "Don't sputter as though you'd swallowed your teeth. What is it you want to get?"
"Firing," blurted Spitzer after a desperate struggle.
Regan gasped for his breath. Spitzer! SPITZER—in a cab! He couldn't have heard straight.
"Say it again," whispered the master mechanic.
"Firing," repeated Spitzer, with more confidence now that the plunge was taken.
"Yes," said Regan weakly to himself. "That's it. I got it right—firing! He wants to get firing!"
"I—I can do it," faltered Spitzer. "I got to."
"Eh? What's that? " said Regan. "You got to? Say, you, Spitzer, what the devil's the matter with you anyway?"
Spitzer wriggled like a worm on a hook, and his face
