When the latter came in, Mr. Jones beckoned with his finger, and Guy followed him to the furthest corner of the saloon.
“Well,” said the commercial traveler, “how do you like it as far as you have gone? Twenty-five dollars for an hour’s work I call pretty fair wages. If you make that amount every night, it will not take you long to pay your debts.”
“I don’t like the business at all,” said Guy, “and I will never attempt it again.”
Mr. Jones settled back in his chair, looked up at the ceiling through the clouds of smoke that arose from the cigar, and said to himself:
“I don’t know that it makes any difference to me whether you do or not. If you don’t pay your debts in this way, you must use some of the firm’s money. When you do that your days as shipping clerk are numbered, and my brother will step into the position.”
Then aloud he asked:
“How did you get away from him?”
“I did just as you told me,” replied Guy, rather impatiently, for it was a matter that he did not like to talk about. “I dampened the matches, went to the bar for a light, and stepped out when he wasn’t looking.”
“He didn’t bleed as freely as I hoped he would,” continued Mr. Jones; “but, after all, we did very well. Here’s your share of the spoils—twenty-five dollars.”
It was on the point of Guy’s tongue to refuse to accept it; but he thought of Dutch Jake, who was probably at that very moment stamping about his little groggery like a madman, because his eight dollars and forty cents had not been paid according to promise, and knowing that the man must at all hazards be prevented from making another visit to the store, he took the money and put it into his pocket.