“Yes,” was the reply. “This looks like a pretty good-sized establishment.”
“There are bigger ones in town, but I don’t think you’ll find any much better. You’ve met Barton? Good! He’ll tell you what to do when you show up for work in the morning. Of course,” he added, as Owen strolled away with him, “there are a lot of cars stored here that are looked after by the owners themselves. We get six dollars a month for space between two of those black lines. The rent, along with the sale of gasoline and oil, is about all the revenue we get from that class of customers. It’s the big bugs, like Judge Pembroke, who make the business worth while.”
He opened a door at the rear of the big room and ushered Owen into a small apartment equipped with a bunk, washstand, and chair, and having a single window for light and air.
“My night man’s name is Pruitt,” continued Rockwell. “He takes care of the business during the off hours. Occasionally—not very often—he is rushed, and needs help. That’s why I want you to sleep in this room, Clancy, and I wish you’d sleep here to-night.”
“If Pruitt has much for me to do,” said Owen, “I can see where I’m not going to be of much help to Barton.”
“You may never be routed out during the night, but I want some one around in case Pruitt has to leave the garage with a car. You’ll show up here this evening?”
“Yes.”
“All right, I’ll depend on you. I’ll tell the helper, who has been sleeping here, that he can begin berthing at home. Give me faithful service, Clancy, and I’ll see that your wages are raised from time to time. I reckon that will be all. You’d better go and hunt your supper. Where’s your baggage?”
“I’ve got a grip coming over from Tempe on the stage.”