A sudden idea flashed over him, but it seemed so preposterous that he laughed it away.
“I can’t afford to worry too much about Sigsbee,” he said. “I’ll do the best I know how with the job I have, and if it comes to a show-down, I’ll confess the truth about the letter.”
CHAPTER VIII.
ON THE FIFTEENTH.
For several weeks after this, things ran on smoothly. Nash progressed swiftly with his work, the usual perfect California weather prevailed, and Hooker remained sober.
One day the foreman left for Los Angeles on business, returning the same evening. The moment he caught sight of him, Nash’s heart sank. Hooker was so intoxicated that two of the office employees had to carry him from the wagon to his cabin.
“I thought you were going to cut out this sort of thing,” Nash said, helping the foreman into the room.
“Well—I jus’ couldn’t help it,” struggled Hooker. “I was—in town all—day. Saw—saw Sigsbee. We—had a glorious—time—so—so pleasant, the old man—is.”
“Do you know what day of the month this is?” asked Nash.
“Day of—the month?” repeated Hooker, smiling and shaking his head. “Sure—sure I do! It’s—Monday, ain’t it?”