"Was that what was in the letter?"
"It was—just that," said Carleton grimly.
"Hell!" Flannagan's short laugh held a jeering note of contempt. "I didn't open it—or mabbe I'd have known, eh?"
Carleton's eyes narrowed.
"Well, you know now, don't you?"
"Sure!" Flannagan scowled and licked his lips. "I'm out, thrown out, and——"
"Then, get out!" Carleton cut in sharply. "You've had more chances than any man ever got before from me, thanks to Regan; but you've had your last, and talking won't do you any good now."
Flannagan stepped nearer to the desk.
"Talkin'! Who's talkin'?" he flared in sudden bravado. "Didn't I tell you I didn't read your damned letter? Didn't I, eh, didn't I? D'ye think I'd crawl to you or any man for a job? I'm out, am I? D'ye think I came down to ask you to take me back? I'd see you rot first! T'hell with the job—see!"
Few men on the Hill Division ever saw Carleton lose his temper—it wasn't Carleton's way of doing things. He didn't lose it now, but his words were like trickling drops of ice water.