“I said gasolene!” said Jim, menacingly.
“Sorry, boss, but the last car out took the last drop we had in the pump. We'll have some more to-morrow mornin'.”
“My God!” Jim whispered.
Then the storm broke. A thunder smash like the bolt of an indignant Heaven. It turned on all the faucets above.
“Where's the telephone?” Jim demanded.
“T.D.,” said Skip.
“What's that?”
“Temporary discontinued.” Skip grew confidential. “The boss was a little slow on the pay and they shut him off. We're takin' in a lot of dough to-night, though, and he'll prob'ly get it goin' to-morrow all right.”
To-morrow again! Jim snarled back at the pack of wolfish circumstances closing in on him. He turned to Charity.
“We've got to stay here.”