The salary was to be eight dollars a week with good opportunities for advancement. The slaughter-house smelt quite pleasant to Evan as he passed it on his way to the car. He felt joyful at heart, and hopeful for the future.
But, oh, that head, how it ached! What sense was there in drinking to drown sorrow when a fellow suffered so the day after? His stomach was sick, and he couldn't endure the sight of a wine-shop. After all, he thought, the liquor was not a drowner of sorrow, but a procrastinator; and, as in the case of postponed debts, interest was added.
Robb was in their room when Evan arrived at Mrs. Greig's boarding-house.
"Well," said the old bankclerk, "how do you feel now?"
"No more booze for me," replied Evan, smiling.
Robb answered with a smile. "I'm glad you're not worrying anyway, old chap. Things will be all right before long."
"The reason I'm not worrying," said Evan, "is because I've got another job. I go on in the morning."
He explained about the abattoir company's offer.
"Well, you're the limit! What salary?"
"Eight a week. They asked me where I'd been working, and why I left."