“Bull,” returned de Spain with corresponding and ceremonial emphasis, “it is a fair question between man and man. I admit it; it is a fair question. And I answer, no, Bull. McAlpin has had nothing on the face of the desert to do with my sending for you. And I add this because I know you want to hear it: he says he couldn’t complain of your work, because you never do any.”
“That man,” persisted Bull, reinforced by the hearty tone and not clearly catching the drift of the very last words, “drinks more liquor than I do.”
“He must be some tank, Bull.”
“And I don’t hide it, Mr. de Spain.”
“You’d have to crawl under Music Mountain to do that. What I want to know is, do you like your job?”
On this point it was impossible to get an expression from Bull. He felt convinced that de Spain was pressing for an answer only as a preliminary to his discharge. “No matter,” interposed the latter, cutting Bull’s ramblings short, “drop it, Bull. I want you to do something for me, and I’ll pay for it.”
Bull, with a palsied smile and a deep, quavering note of gratitude, put up his shaky hand. “Say what. That’s all. I’ve been paid.”
“You know you’re a sot, Bull.”
Bull nodded. “I know it.”