But John was roused now, thoroughly.
"Why, Bud, what are you talking about?" he demanded, turning accusingly to the boy.
"For the love of Mike," exclaimed Bud, advancing a little fearsomely and studying the face of Hampstead with new curiosity, "Yer let out and don't know it! What'd I tell 'em? Why, there it is," and he snatched up a blue, thin-looking envelope from the dresser. "Y' got it a week ago when you got yer pay. Y' ain't opened it even."
Hampstead took the blue envelope from Bud's hand, an awful sense of weakness running through him as he read that his services would not be required after the customary two weeks.
"What did I get this for, Bud?" he asked, sensing the uselessness of dissimulation before this impertinent child.
"Y' got it fer bein' dopey," answered Bud reproachfully. "Y' ain't had no more sense than a wooden man fer ten days. Say, Mr. Hampstead," he ventured further with sympathetic friendliness, "yer a good actor when you let the hop alone. Why don't you cut it? You're young yet. You got a future, Mr. Cohen says, if you'll let the dope alone."
Hampstead's face took on a queer, half-amused look.
"Is that what he said?"
"That's what he said," affirmed Bud aggressively.
"Well, then, all right, Bud. I will cut it out. Here's my hand on it."