"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."
Charity "went white," as the saying is. The rain streamed down.
"We 'ain't a room left," said Skip.
"You've got to have," said Jim.
"Have to speak to the artshiteck," said Skip. Then he rubbed his
head, trying to get out an idea by massage. "There's the poller.
Big lounge there, but not made up. Would you and your wife wish
the poller?"
He dragged the "wife" with a tone that nearly got him throttled. But
Jim paused. A complicated thought held him. To protest that Charity
was not his wife seemed hardly the most reassuring thing to do.
He let the word go and ignored Skip's cynical intonation. Jim's
knuckles ached to rebuke him, but he had not fought a waiter since
his wild young days. And Skip was protected by his infirmity.
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