“I mean to treat everybody right at the store,” declared Copeland virtuously. “If any of the boys have a kick I want them to come straight to me with it.”
Jerry laid his hand on the door ready for flight and regarded Copeland soberly.
“The only kick’s on you, if you can bear to hear it. Everybody around the place knows you’re not on the job; every drayman in the district knows you’re out with a paintbrush every night, and the solid men around town are saying it’s only a matter of time till you go broke. And the men down at the store are sore about it; it means that one of these mornings there’ll be a new shift and they’re likely to be out of a job. Some of them have been there a long time, and they don’t like to see the old business breaking down. And some of them, I guess, sort o’ like you and hate to see you slipping over the edge.”
During this speech Copeland stood with his cigarette-case half opened in his hand, looking hard at the top button on Amidon’s coat.
“Well,” he said, thrusting a cigarette into his mouth and tilting it upwards with his lips while he felt for a match, “go on and hand me the rest of it.”
“I guess that’s about all from me,” replied Jerry, “except if you want to bounce me right now, go ahead, only—let’s don’t have any hard feeling.”
Copeland made no reply, and Jerry went out and closed the door. Then in a moment he opened it, saw Copeland staring out across the roofs in deep preoccupation, and remarked, deferentially:—
“I’ll carry your bag down, sir. Shall I order a taxi?”
“Never mind,” said Copeland, with affected carelessness; “I’ll attend to it. I’m going to the store.”