The bookkeeper smoked a corn-cob pipe, and he stopped to refill and light it before he opened on me.
"What's wrong?" he demanded. For an Irishman he was always exceedingly sparing of his words.
"Suppose we say that the climate doesn't agree with me here."
"You're no sick man!" he shot back; and then: "Want more pay?"
"No; I want a letter of recommendation."
"We never give 'em."
"So I have heard. But this time, Mr. Mullins, you are going to make an exception and break your rule."
"Not for you, we won't."
"Why not for me?"
"Because we're knowing your record. You're fixing to go back to the pen, where you came from."