The banker walked on and entered the bank. Charley Prentice was seated at his desk in a dejected attitude, and looked up at the banker through bloodshot eyes. He needed a shave and a haircut, and his collar was soiled, his necktie askew.
“Well, Charley,” said the banker coldly.
Prentice got to his feet, a crooked grin on his lips.
“Wasn’t looking for you to-day, Mr. Grant,” he mumbled.
“I suspected as much,” Grant said, dryly. He glanced around the bank, but no one was there, except Johnson, the bookkeeper, who was busy at his work. Prentice tried to straighten his tie, to adjust himself generally.
“I’m sorry, Charley,” said the old man slowly. “We’ve had some bad reports on you lately. At first I didn’t believe it, but when the report came again, I felt obliged to come and see for myself. I’d have staked anything on you, Charley.”
Charley Prentice’s face twisted foolishly.
“Well, what’s wrong?” he asked thickly.
“You’re drunk right now, Charley; unfit for work. Go home and sober up.”
“You mean—I’m fired?”