“Where do you get your teams?”
“Of Shaytop. Why do you ask?”
“My cash was examined yesterday afternoon, after both of us left; and I am charged with a deficit of twelve hundred dollars.”
“Whew!” whistled Heavyside, more alarmed than I was.
He stood by my side at the counter while I told him that Shaytop “had put a flea into the ear of the president” on my account.
“The scoundrel! I will never drive another of his teams!” exclaimed the cashier.
Shaytop was not likely to make much by his snivelling operation, which was too mean for any gentleman to appreciate. There was no ground for a charge against me, and I think the stable-keeper made it out of pure malice.
“I said nothing to Mr. Bristlebach about the draft,” I continued; “and he still thinks the cash is twelve hundred dollars short.”
“This is bad,” said he, biting his lips with vexation.