To his surprise, Donovan nodded genially. "You're on, Jack. And that
goes the minute Waring shows up with the money. If he doesn't show
up--why, that raise can wait."

"Then I'll just date the change to-day," said Quigley. "Take a look down
the street."

Donovan rose heavily and stepped to the window. "By God, it's Waring,
all right! He's afoot. What's that he's packing?"

"A canteen," said the assistant manager. "This is a dry country."

Donovan returned to his desk. "Get busy, at something. We don't want to
sit here like a lot of stuffed buzzards. We're glad to see Waring back,
of course. You two can drift out when I get to talking business with
him."

Quigley nodded and took up his pen. The assistant manager studied a map.

Waring strode in briskly. The paymaster glanced up and nodded, expecting
Donovan to speak. But Donovan sat with his back toward Waring, his head
wreathed in tobacco smoke. He was apparently absorbed in a letter.

The gunman paused halfway across the office. Quigley fidgeted. The
assistant superintendent stole a glance at Donovan's broad back and
smiled. All three seemed waiting for Waring to speak. Quigley rather
enjoyed the situation. The assistant superintendent's scalp prickled
with restrained excitement.

He rose and stepped to Donovan. "Mr. Donovan, Mr. Waring is here."