“Phat’s that?” she demanded.
She weighed one hundred and ninety and was nearly six feet tall. He was barely five feet five and could not have tipped the beam at one hundred and twenty-five without his winter suit and overcoat. He moved back a corresponding step or two.
“Don’t argue,” he said, hurriedly.
“Argue?” she snorted. “Phy, ye little shrimp, who are you to be talkin’ back to me? For two cents I’d––” 27
“You are discharged!” he cried, hastily putting a chair in her path—but wisely retaining a grip on it.
She threw back her head and laughed, loudly, insultingly. Her broad hands, now gloveless and as red as broiled lobsters, found resting-places on her hips. He allowed his gaze to take them in with one hurried, sweeping glance. They were as big and as menacing as a prizefighter’s.
“We’ll discuss it when you’re sober,” he made haste to say, trying to wink amiably.
“So help me Mike, I haven’t touched a––” she began, but caught herself in time. “So yez discharge me, do yez?” she shouted.
“I understood you had quit, anyway.”
“Well, me fine little man, I’ll see yez further before I’ll quit now. I came back this minute to give notice, but I wouldn’t do it now for twenty-five dollars.”