"Umhm. Go on."
"I want two months more."
The "old man" beat a tattoo with his fat pencil. "Sixty days, then. And if the yarn isn't on my desk at midnight, you—"
"Hunt for another job. All right. I came in to ask for three days' leave."
"You're your own boss, Jim, for sixty days more. Whadda y' mean counterfeiting?"
"Those new tens and twenties. If I stumble on that right, why, I can turn it over without conflicting with the other story."
"Well, go to it."
"I'm turning in my regular work, day in and day out, and while doing it I've gone through more hairbreadth escapes than you ever heard of. They have been after me. I've dodged falling safes; I've been shanghaied, poisoned; but I haven't said a word."
"Good lord! Do you mean all that?"
"Every word, sir."