“That is what it amounts to, Charley. I’m sorry.”
Charley Prentice took a deep breath and looked around. Perhaps he was a trifle sorry too, but he was also mad. He shoved his hands deep in his pockets as he stood on unsteady legs.
“Fired, eh? That’s fine! After all, I’ve—who reported me? Who told you I was drunk, eh?”
“That doesn’t matter,” said Grant mildly. “It doesn’t seem to be any secret around here.”
“Doesn’t, eh? I’ll tell you who reported me—Len Ayres. He’s the one. By God, he said he’d get me. Well, he got me, didn’t he? Ha, ha, ha, ha! That’s fine. But I’ll fix him. I’ll show him if he can come back here and—well, well! So you believed him, eh? You took his word for things. He said I was drunk, and you believed him. Came sneaking in to find out, eh? Well, I’m not worrying about the job.”
“Charley, you better go home and sober up.”
“Sober? I tell you, I’m as sober as a judge! Look at me.”
“That’s the trouble—I can see you, Charley.”
Charley shrugged his shoulders and walked out, but he didn’t go to his home—he went to the Oasis. The old banker sat down at his desk and lit a cigar with trembling fingers. Lester Johnson, the bookkeeper, came over to him and shook hands.
“I’m sorry, too, Mr. Grant,” he said. “It was rather hard for me to send you those reports.”