Williams, rather troubled by the news that Benson had imparted to him, had gotten no further than the square when he met Shanley the foreman. To him he confided all that their employer had just told him.
“So his gun's no good! I bet he didn't like that; he's always so blame sure of himself;” and Shanley did not attempt to disguise a certain lingering satisfaction that at last Tom Benson had encountered failure.
“It's nothing to chuckle over!” said the bookkeeper resentfully. “If you'd seen him!”
“Well, of course he'd take it hard; he takes everything hard, even his good luck, how'd you expect him to take this?” demanded the foreman.
“If his gun's no good, he's been losing money hand over fist. Look here,” said Williams. “I want you to go back with me.”
“Back with you where?” asked Shanley.
“Why, to the shops; I left him there.”
“You left him there?” cried Shanley.
“Yes, worrying over the books. I got my doubts about him.”
“Hold on, do you mean you think—”