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no extra pay.
           He dismissed us with another string of profanity. Putting through a rush order to the print shop, he got a delivery on the letters that very evening. And for the rest of the week, and part of the next, Durkin and I worked night and day. I was sore as a boil, naturally. Durkin, strangely enough, seemed completely at peace with himself. He remained stolidly polite to the manager. In fact, the more the latter gibed and nagged at him, the more polite he became.
           It was the manager's idea to "sweep the town off its feet," to hit it such a blow that it would be "rocked to its heels." So the letters were allowed to accumulate instead of being sent out a thousand or so at a time. He kept close watch on our progress. Seeing that we were near the finish, he remained with us that last night, although he did not, of course, help us with the work. He looked on, grinning maliciously, as we packed the letters into boxes and loaded them into Durkin's car.
           "I guess that'll teach you," he jeered when, at last, the job was finished. "Snap into it, now, and maybe you'll get that stuff mailed before midnight."
           He drove away laughing. Durkin told me to go on home, that he would take the letters to the post office himself. I protested my willingness to help, and for the first time in our acquaintance he was curt with me. He didn't want my help, he said. He preferred taking care of the letters himself.
           I went home. He got into his car and drove off. Late the following afternoon, I learned the reason for his unprecedented conduct.
           I was working the cashier's window at the time. A quiet, nondescript little man came up to the wicket and asked to be taken to the manager. I suggested, according to store practice, that I might be able to help him.
           "I'm not sure the manager is available at the moment, sir. If it's something about your account, some misunderstanding or—"
           "Post office department," he said, displaying his credentials. "Are you in charge of the mail?"
           "I handle some of it, yes," I said. "I'm not in charge, but—"
           "I'm in charge." Durkin came up and stood beside me. "This young man has nothing to do with the mail."
           "I see," the little man nodded. "Well, we received a call from the sanitation department a little while ago." He broke off cautiously. "I think I'd better see the manager."
           "You can't. There's no need to see him," said Durkin.
           The little man looked at him. Reaching through the window he tapped Durkin on the arm. "Mister," he said, and his voice cracked like a whip, "you get the manager for me and be damned quick about it!"
           Durkin shook his head stubbornly. The manager, having heard himself referred to, came out of his office. Surlily, he inquired what the hell was up.
           The inspector introduced himself. He explained. And what happened then is impossible to describe adequately. The manager gasped. He choked. His face purpled, puffing up like a balloon, and his eyes stood out from his head like doorknobs. He began to bellow, to scream.
           Durkin was fired within the hour, as soon as approval could be obtained from the home office. I, a mere clerk, was discharged immediately—the suspected instigator of, if not an actual accessory to, the credit manager's crime.
           "I'm certainly sorry, Jim," he apologized. "I tried to keep you out of it, you know. That's why I sent you on home instead of—"
           "But why did you do it at all?" I said. "My God, Durk, you might have gone to the pen for a deal like that. We both might have, if the company wanted to get tough with us. Why the hell did you do it, anyway?"
           "Why, Jim," he said, reasonably, "you know why I did it."
           "Dammit, I don't know," I said.
           "Sure, you do. You said the letters were junk; they'd