“That’s all right,” Sheener told me. “I didn’t hear any kicks that his work wasn’t done while he was on this bat.”
“Oh, I guess it got done all right. Some one had to do it. We can’t pay him for work that some one else does.”
“Say, don’t try to pull that stuff,” Sheener protested. “As long as his work is done, you ain’t got any kick. This guy has got to have a job, or he’ll go bust, quick. It’s all that keeps his feet on the ground. If he didn’t think he was earning his living, he’d go on the bum in a minute.”
I was somewhat impatient with Sheener’s insistence, but I was also interested in this developing situation. “Who’s going to do his work, anyhow?” I demanded.
For the first time in our acquaintance I saw Sheener look confused. “That’s all right, too,” he told me. “It don’t take any skin off of your back, long as it’s done.”
In the end I surrendered. Evans kept his job; and Sheener—I once caught him in the act, to his vast embarrassment—did the janitor’s work when Evans was unfit for duty. Also Sheener loaned him money, small sums that mounted into an interesting total; and furthermore I know that on one occasion Sheener fought for him.
The man Evans went his pompous way, accepting Sheener’s homage and protection as a matter of right, and in the course of half a dozen years I left the paper for other work, saw Sheener seldom, and Evans not at all.
III
About ten o’clock one night in early summer I was wandering somewhat aimlessly through the South End to see what I might see when I encountered Sheener. He was running, and his dark face was twisted with anxiety. When he saw me he stopped with an exclamation of relief, and I asked him what the matter was.
“You remember old Bum Evans?” he asked, and added: “He’s sick. I’m looking for a doctor. The old guy is just about all in.”