Phil’s face lit up.
“Right now!”
“Give me to-night;––two or three hours more, and don’t interfere with me between this and then,––and I’ll take you on.”
“It’s a go!” exclaimed Phil, holding out his hand.
Jim gripped it, and Phil knew that Jim would keep his word, for he was the kind of man whose word, drunk or sober, was as good as the deed accomplished.
“Mind you, Phil,––I don’t say I’ll never drink again.”
“I’m not asking you to promise that,” answered Phil.
“Right! At nine o’clock to-night I’m through with the long-term Highland Fling for keeps.”
Phil assented to the proposal and left Jim to complete his potato distribution.
But Jim could not have remained very long with the job, for, by the time Phil had taken a leisurely stroll round to the forge to have a few words with Sol Hanson, and had partaken of a bit of supper with Betty and the big, genial Swede, Jim had succeeded in putting up his delivery-outfit, had dressed himself out in his cowboy trappings; chaps, Stetson, khaki shirt, red tie, belts, spurs 233 and all complete, and was creating a furore among the law-abiding citizens down town.