“Ah, ha! an’ it’s there ye are?”
“Yes,” replied Dennis with solicitous abnegation.
“Well,” returned the other, “roll up yer sleeves; yer job’s a-waitin’ fur ye.”
With an agility that betrayed the diplomacy of his countenance into ingenuous exultation, Dennis followed the foreman into the warehouse, and the latter at once began his instructions as to the system of marking, and Dennis mastered its simple mysteries with a quickness that was not only flattering to the discernment of his instructor but an indorsement of Celtic adjustability in general.
In the course of the morning Dennis discovered that his predecessor had put him under obligations by prolonging his debauch, and that his arrival upon the scene had been most opportune in consequence.
He was now assured of a position, whose only handicap was the prospect, delicately insinuated by the foreman for his consideration, of the possible state of mind of the previous incumbent when he realized that his niche had been filled, and it did not add to his cheerfulness when the foreman examined his biceps with an expert touch and remarked: “I guess that ye can take care of yerself.”
There was nothing belligerent about Dennis, and he trusted that his predecessor would not regard him from that standpoint.
In the meantime Saturday arrived, and Dennis, in possession of his proportion of the week’s pay, hurried to The Stag by way of Baxter Street.
In this locality he began a search for Series B of the dickies, and was finally successful, after a number of disappointments and a protracted hunt.
With the courage of his recently acquired situation, Dennis proposed to indulge in a little improvidence.