“I reckon I better adopt some decent young man,” his father returned. “I'd bring Bibbs up here and put him in your place if he was fit. I would!”
“Better do it,” Roscoe assented, sullenly.
“When'd you begin this thing?”
“I always did drink a little. Ever since I grew up, that is.”
“Leave that talk out! You know what I mean.”
“Well, I don't know as I ever had too much in office hours—until the other day.”
Sheridan began cutting. “It's a lie. I've had Ray Wills up from your office. He didn't want to give you away, but I put the hooks into him, and he came through. You were drunk twice before and couldn't work. You been leavin' your office for drinks every few hours for the last three weeks. I been over your books. Your office is way behind. You haven't done any work, to count, in a month.”
“All right,” said Roscoe, drooping under the torture. “It's all true.”
“What you goin' to do about it?”
Roscoe's head was sunk between his shoulders. “I can't stand very much talk about it, father,” he said, pleadingly.