Rockwell was plausible, but he was not plausible enough to fool Clancy. The red-headed chap was badly disappointed. Rockwell was crafty, if not downright dishonest.
“I guess you don’t want me, Mr. Rockwell,” said Clancy. “I haven’t been brought up to stand for that sort of thing.”
“Bosh! You’re too thin-skinned. Business is business, young fellow, and nowadays a man has to be mighty shrewd if he makes good. It’s principally the rich men who keep cars in garages, and it’s necessary to keep their machines in trim—even if you have to use tact, once in a while, to get permission to overhaul a car. As for the driver’s end of it—well, maybe that’s plain graft, but it’s legitimate so far as the garage owner is concerned. If he keeps his customers he has to pay the driver his bit.”
“I need work,” said Clancy, “but I’m going to be square. If I can’t make good without stealing, then I won’t make good, that’s all.”
Silence settled down between the two. The car rolled into Washington Street and along it to First Avenue. As it turned into the avenue, the front of the garage was brought plainly into sight. A big red star hung over the door. Above the star were the words, “Red Star Garage,” and, below it, the attractive legend, “Free Air.”
The garage was an adobe structure, but it looked rather imposing and prosperous. A man in greasy overclothes was out in front, filling a radiator. Another car, spick and span from recent grooming, was just sliding through the broad doorway into the street.
In front of the building, on a bench, sat Judge Pembroke and Jimmie Fortune. Evidently they were waiting for Clancy to arrive. Rockwell muttered something under his breath.
“I’ll give you a job as mechanic’s helper at fifty a month to start,” said he, “and I’ll trust you to do the right thing by me. Is it a go?”
“Yes,” Clancy answered. “When am I to begin?”
“To-morrow morning.”