"I'll go to your office. Will Donnelly be game?"
"He will if he knows which side his bread is buttered on," contemptuously.
The two went up to McQuade's office. It was deserted.
"The girl's gone this afternoon," said McQuade, "but I can handle the typewriter myself."
"All I've got to say is that I mailed you a receipt. What do you want it for?" with a final protest.
"I've got an idea in my head, Morrissy. I want that receipt. Some day you may take it into your head to testify that I offered you a thousand to bring on the strike at Bennington's. That would put me in and let you out, because I can't prove that I gave the cash to you. Business is business."
"Hell! Any one would think, to hear you talk, that I had threatened to betray."
"Every man to his own skin," replied McQuade philosophically. He then sat down before the typewriter. There were two blank sheets in the roller, with a carbon between. The girl had left her machine all ready for the morrow's work. McQuade picked out his sentence laboriously.
"There, sign that."
The paper read: