"No," said Regan, shaking his head. "It would make him worse. He'd blame it on Paxley, and we'd have trouble on our hands before you could bat an eyelash."
"Yes; perhaps you're right," agreed Carleton. "Well, then, try him on the construction tack, Tommy."
And so Regan went that afternoon from the super's office over to Mrs. McCann's short-order house, and up to Owsley's room.
"Well, how's Jake to-day?" he inquired, in his bluff, cheery way, drawing a chair up beside the bed.
"I'm fine, Regan," said Owsley earnestly. "Fine! What day is this?"
"Thursday," Regan told him.
"Yes," said Owsley, "that's right—Thursday. Well, you can put me down to take the old 1601 out Monday night. I'm figuring to get back on the run Monday night, Regan."
Regan ran his hand through his short-cropped hair, twisted a little uneasily in his chair—and coughed to fill in the gap.
"I wouldn't be in a hurry about it, if I were you, Jake," he said. "In fact, that's what I came over to have a little talk with you about. We don't think you're strong enough yet for the cab."
"Who don't?" demanded Owsley antagonistically.