Potter clung to the edge of the desk, dizzy, swaying, his head not clear between blow and drink.
“Here,” said the lieutenant, “come in here and lay down. Want I should telephone anybody—or git a doctor?”
“No,” said Potter, sinking on the lounge and closing his eyes.
The lieutenant went out and called the superintendent on the telephone. “Got young Waite here,” he said. “He tried to tear the Pontchartrain up by the roots and Kerr had to drop the locust on him a bit. What’ll I do wit’ the kid?”
“Hurt?”
“Didn’t improve him none.”
“Drunk?”
“So-so.”
“Send somebody over to the Tuller with him and have him put to bed.”
It was not for the public to know that the superintendent had two sons who were employed in the Waite Motor Car Company’s plant—for whom he desired fair prospects and promotion.