Harding's face brightened.
"I will accept temporary employment then, sir. Thank you, sir."
Gordon wondered. Then he cleared his throat, and held out two of the checks he had written.
"Here's two months' wages," he said. "One is your due. Guess the other's the same, only—it's a present. Now, get this. You'll need to see everything cleared right out of this shanty, and stored at the Manhattan deposit. When that's done, get right along and report things to my father, and hand him your accounts for settlement. All my cigars and cigarettes and wine and things, why, I guess you can have for a present. It don't seem reasonable to me condemning you to five-cent cigars and domestic lager. Now pack me one grip, as you said. I'll wear the suit I've got on. Mind, I need a grip I can tote myself—full."
"Very good, sir. Thank you, sir. Anything else, sir?"
"Why, yes." Gordon was smiling again. "Hand this check in at the bank when it opens to-morrow, and get me cash for it, and bring it right along. That's all, except you'd better get me another disgusting sandwich, and another bottle of tragedy beer for my supper. There's nothing else."
With a resolute air Gordon turned back to his work, as, with an obvious sigh of regret, Harding silently withdrew.