It was. Neither was there any flaw in it as at first sight might appear, for the last test of logic is its power of conviction. Shanley, from being a man with some reasonable cause for qualms of conscience, became, in his own mind, one deeply sinned against, one injured and crushed down by the load of others he was forced to bear. He explained this to Carleton while the thought of his burning wrongs was still at white heat, and before the super had a chance to get in a word. He began as he opened the office door, continued as he crossed the room, and finished as he stood before the super’s desk. The scowl that had settled on Carleton’s face, as he looked up at the other’s entrance, gradually gave way to a hint of humor lurking around the corners of his mouth, and he leaned back in his chair and listened with an exaggerated air of profound attention. “Just so, just so,” said he, when Shanley finally came to a breathless halt. “Now perhaps you will allow _me_ to say a word. It may not have occurred to you that I sent for you in order that _I_ might do the talking--h’m?” This really seemed to require no answer, so Shanley made none. “Yesterday,” went on Carleton, “you came to me for a job, and I gave you one, didn’t I?” “Yes,” admitted Shanley, licking his lips. “Just so,” said Carleton mildly. “I hired you then. I fire you now. Pretty quick work, what?” “You’re the doctor,” said Shanley evenly enough. He had, for all his logic, expected no more nor less--he was too firm a believer in his own particular and exclusive brand of luck. “You’re the doctor,” he repeated. “There’s a matter of twenty bucks------ “I was coming to that,” interrupted Carleton; “but I’m glad _you_ mentioned it. I’ll be honest enough to admit that I hardly expected you would. A man who acts as you’ve acted doesn’t generally--h’m?” “I told you ‘twasn’t my fault,” said Shanley stubbornly. Carleton reached for his pipe, and struck a match, surveying Shanley the while with a gaze that was half perplexed, half quizzical. “You’re a queer card,” he remarked at last. “Why don’t you cut out the booze?” “‘Twasn’t my fault, I tell you,” persisted Shanley. “You’re a pretty good hand with your fists, what?” said Carleton irrelevantly. “Kelly’s no slouch himself.” Shanley blinked. It appeared that the super was as intimately posted on the events of the preceding evening as he was himself. The remark suggested an inspection of the fists in question. They were grimy and dirty, and most of the knuckles were barked; closed, they resembled a pair of miniature battering-rams. “Pretty good,” he admitted modestly. “H’m! About that twenty. You intend to pay it back, don’t you?” “I’m not a thief, whatever else I am,” snapped Shanley. “Of course, I’ll pay it back. You needn’t worry.” “When?” insisted Carleton coolly. “When I get a job.”