But it was clear that the lady did not believe him.
It was about ten o’clock that night when Anthony Cade walked into the small room where Jimmy McGrath was busy manipulating various bottles.
“Make it strong, James,” he implored. “I can tell you, I need it.”
“I should think you did, my boy. I wouldn’t take on that job of yours for anything.”
“Show me another, and I’ll jump out of it fast enough.”
McGrath poured out his own drink, tossed it off with a practised hand and mixed a second one. Then he said slowly:
“Are you in earnest about that, old son?”
“About what?”
“Chucking this job of yours if you could get another?”
“Why? You don’t mean to say that you’ve got a job going begging? Why don’t you grab it yourself?”
“I have grabbed it—but I don’t much fancy it, that’s why I’m trying to pass it on to you.”
Anthony became suspicious.
“What’s wrong with it? They haven’t engaged you to teach in a Sunday school, have they?”
“Do you think anyone would choose me to teach in a Sunday school?”
“Not if they knew you well, certainly.”
“It’s a perfectly good job—nothing wrong with it whatsoever.”