"Hello, Tom! What sort of a damned society call d'you call this?"
"If you only worked as hard as you sleep, Pete, you could put up a building alone," said Tom, exasperated. "D'you get the book?"
"Over there." Pete pointed to a package lying on the floor.
Tom picked it up eagerly, sat down on the edge of the bed—Pete's clothes were sprawling over the only chair—and hastily opened it. Within the wrapping paper was the secretary's book.
"How'd you get it, Pete?"
"The amount o' licker I turned into spittoons last night, Tom, was certainly an immoral waste. If I'd put it where it belonged, I'd be drunk for life. Connelly, he'll never come to. Now, s'pose you chase along, Tom, an' let me finish things up with my bed."
"What time d'you want the book again?"
"By nine to-night."
"Will you have any trouble putting it back in the office?"
"Sure not. While I had Connelly's keys I made myself one to his office. I took a blank and a file with me last night."