ugh. You were drunk twice before and couldn't work. You
been leavin' your office for drinks every few hours for the last three
weeks. I been over your books. Your office is way behind. You haven't
done any work, to count, in a month."

"All right," said Roscoe, drooping under the torture. "It's all true."

"What you goin' to do about it?"

Roscoe's head was sunk between his shoulders. "I can't stand very much
talk about it, father," he said, pleadingly.

"No!" Sheridan cried. "Neither can I! What do you think it means to ME?"
He dropped into the chair at his big desk, groaning. "I can't stand to
talk about it any more'n you can to listen, but I'm goin' to find out
what's the matter with you, and I'm goin' to straighten you out!"

Roscoe shook his head helplessly.

"You can't straighten me out."

"See here!" said Sheridan. "Can you go back to your office and stay
sober to-day, while I get my work done, or will I have to hire a couple
o' huskies to follow you around and knock the whiskey out o' your hand
if they see you tryin' to take it?"

"You needn't worry about that," said Roscoe, looking up with a faint
resentment. "I'm not drinking because I've got a thirst."

"Well, what have you got?"

"Nothing. Nothing you can do anything about. Nothing, I tell you."

"We'll see about that!" said Sheridan, harshly. "Now I can't fool with
you to-day, and you get up out o' that chair and get out o' my
office. You bring your wife to dinner to-morrow. You didn't come last
Sunday--but you come to-morrow. I'll talk this out with you when the
women-folks are workin' the phonograph, after dinner. Can you keep sober
till then? You better be sure, because I'm going to send Abercrombie
down to your office every little while, and he'll let me know."

Roscoe paused at the door. "You told Abercrombie about it?" he asked.

"TOLD him!" And Sheridan laughed hideously. "Do you suppose there's an
elevator-boy in the whole dam' building that ain't on to you?"

Roscoe settled his hat down over his eyes and went out.

CHAPTER XXI

"WHO looks a mustang in the eye?
Changety, chang, chang! Bash! Crash! BANG!"

So sang Bibbs, his musical gaieties inaudible to his fellow-workmen
because of the noise of the machinery. He had discovered long ago that
the uproar was rhythmical, and it had been intolerable; but now, on the
afternoon of the fourth day of his return, he was accompanying the
swing and clash of the metals with jubilant