CHAPTER IV. CLANCY GETS A JOB.

There was nothing friendly in Rockwell’s voice. In fact, his very words showed an enmity for which Clancy was at a loss to account.

“I was helping out the judge,” said he. “I didn’t know I was butting into your affairs.”

“You made Pembroke think I didn’t know what was wrong with his car!”

“Well, you didn’t, did you?”

“Think I’m a fool? Think I----” Rockwell broke off suddenly, as though realizing he was going too far. “Pembroke is one of my best customers,” he went on. “He keeps two cars at my garage--that big one and an electric for his wife. You’ve made him think I don’t know my business, and I’m liable to lose his trade. That’s why I’m sore about your butting in.”

There was something here which Clancy could not understand. If Rockwell knew what was wrong with the judge’s car--and it was foolish to think that a man who ran a garage could not locate so simple a difficulty--then why hadn’t he fixed the motor instead of offering to tow the car in for an overhauling?

Clancy, who was quick-witted, fell to wondering if Hibbard and Rockwell might not be in “cahoots” to secure money from the judge for “repairs” that were not needed. The chauffeur had shown that he was not to be trusted, and Clancy had heard stories of Rockwell which were far from being a credit to him.

All this, however, was merely guesswork. Knowing nothing absolutely, Clancy reserved judgment.

“I’m sorry if I did you a bad turn, Mr. Rockwell,” said he, “but it seems queer that Hibbard would misrepresent things to the judge, and----”

“Never mind that,” cut in Rockwell. “You made a show of Hibbard and me before the judge, but that’s done with now, and I’ll see if I can’t smooth things over. Pembroke seems to have taken a fancy for you, and you can help me--and maybe Hibbard, too--by keeping away from him. What’s your business?”

“I like to work with motors and I want a place in a garage. I was going to Phoenix to see you about it. Have you a place for me?”

A look of relief crossed Rockwell’s face and his voice took on a more friendly tone as he answered:

“I’d like to give you a job, but hanged if I see how I can. Got more men now than I know what to do with. Is that all?”

“No,” said Clancy, “there’s something else.”

Rockwell grew uneasy again and his former gruffness came back with a rush.

“What else?” he grunted.

“You know a man named John Clancy, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m John Clancy’s son. Owen Clancy is my name.”

“Your father was killed in Mexico, wasn’t he?”

“No. He went down there to save some of his investments and just managed to escape with his life. He’s sick, and in bad shape, and I’ve sent him back East to recover his health.”

“I see. What about his Mexican investments?”

“He lost everything he had, down below the line. The revolutionists cleaned him out.”

“Too bad, too bad!” murmured Rockwell. “John Clancy was well off, and a good sort of a man. But what’s all this to do with me?”

“The way things are now, Mr. Rockwell,” pursued Clancy, “the governor needs all the money he can get hold of. He let you have a thousand dollars and you gave him a note for it. The note is long past due, and I’m here to collect the money.”

Rockwell’s brows wrinkled in a hard frown.

“Where’s that note?” he demanded.

Clancy drew an old black wallet from the breast of his shirt, opened it, and removed an oblong slip of paper.

“Here,” said he, pushing the paper over the steering wheel and under the eyes of Rockwell.

The latter pushed up his goggles, stared at the note for a moment, and then pulled the goggles down over his eyes again.

“That’s the paper, all right,” he observed. “Why wasn’t it presented when due? I had the money to pay it, then, but I’m pretty badly crowded just now.”

“You’ll pay it?” asked Clancy hopefully.

“Always pay my obligations, if I’m given time enough. But I can’t do it right off, Clancy. You’ll have to give me a week or two to round up the money.”

Clancy returned the note to the wallet and the wallet to the breast of his shirt.

“I want to close the matter up as quickly as possible, Mr. Rockwell,” he answered. “You see, I’ve got to find a job right away, and get busy. I haven’t any money to waste loafing around. If there is no garage in Phoenix that can find a place for me, I’ll have to go to some other town.”

Rockwell remained thoughtful for several minutes.

“Ever work in a garage?” he asked.

“No,” was the answer. “Up to now I haven’t had to work. Dad has had plenty of money, and I was attending an academy and getting ready for college. When the crash came, I had to quit school and look for work. The care of the family now falls on me, and--and I’ve got to make good.”

“Now that I know you’re John Clancy’s son,” said Rockwell slowly, “I’m inclined to do more than ordinary to make a place for you. That thousand I got from your father on my plain note helped me over a mighty tight pinch, and that’s mainly the reason I’d like to be of some use to you.”

Clancy was surprised and delighted at the expression of these sentiments. From what he had heard regarding Rockwell, he expected to find in the man a cunning, unscrupulous person who would be exceedingly hard to deal with. Yet here Rockwell was showing a grateful disposition which did not tally with the reports of his character which had come to Clancy.

If Clancy could have seen the guileful light in Rockwell’s eyes, it is safe to say he would not have been so pleased. But the goggles hid the garage owner’s eyes, and the youth was left in the dark as to what was passing in the man’s mind.

“I’ll appreciate anything you can do for me,” said Clancy, with feeling.

“Are you willing to do what I tell you to, and to keep your mouth shut?” asked Rockwell.

“I’ll obey orders, of course, and do the best I can. As for talking, I’ll close up like a clam about everything that concerns you and your business.”

It was an honest, straightforward answer, but it failed to make the proper impression on Rockwell somehow.

“The garage business is peculiar,” remarked Rockwell. “To make anything at all, the proprietor of a garage has to pull a lot of wires. Now, Judge Pembroke just wallows in money, and he wants his cars in the best condition always. I’ve been at him for a long time to get that big machine overhauled, but as long as it runs fairly well he seems to be satisfied. That’s the way with car owners,” and a complaining note entered the man’s voice. “I know, a heap better than the judge, what’s best for his car, and if I don’t do some tinkering with it before long he’ll have a bad spill on the road. Can’t make him see that, though. In order to get that machine and put it in A-1 order, I had to resort to tact. Get me?”

“Tact?” echoed Clancy.

“That’s the word. I was doing it all for the judge. I knew those wires were crossed, and so did Hibbard. What I was after was to tow the big car back to Phoenix and put it in apple-pie order. Hibbard and I were working together. Of course, I had to give Hibbard a bonus; but then, all chauffeurs draw down a commission on about everything--they expect it, and if a garage proprietor don’t pony up, they’ll work it so the car finally lands in some other garage. When things like that happen, Clancy, I want you to keep your own counsel. If you do that, maybe I can find a place for you. If you can’t be--er--diplomatic, there isn’t much that I can do for John Clancy’s son. What about it?”

Rockwell was plausible, but he was not plausible enough to fool Clancy. The red-headed chap was badly disappointed. Rockwell was crafty, if not downright dishonest.

“I guess you don’t want me, Mr. Rockwell,” said Clancy. “I haven’t been brought up to stand for that sort of thing.”

“Bosh! You’re too thin-skinned. Business is business, young fellow, and nowadays a man has to be mighty shrewd if he makes good. It’s principally the rich men who keep cars in garages, and it’s necessary to keep their machines in trim--even if you have to use tact, once in a while, to get permission to overhaul a car. As for the driver’s end of it--well, maybe that’s plain graft, but it’s legitimate so far as the garage owner is concerned. If he keeps his customers he has to pay the driver his bit.”

“I need work,” said Clancy, “but I’m going to be square. If I can’t make good without stealing, then I won’t make good, that’s all.”

Silence settled down between the two. The car rolled into Washington Street and along it to First Avenue. As it turned into the avenue, the front of the garage was brought plainly into sight. A big red star hung over the door. Above the star were the words, “Red Star Garage,” and, below it, the attractive legend, “Free Air.”

The garage was an adobe structure, but it looked rather imposing and prosperous. A man in greasy overclothes was out in front, filling a radiator. Another car, spick and span from recent grooming, was just sliding through the broad doorway into the street.

In front of the building, on a bench, sat Judge Pembroke and Jimmie Fortune. Evidently they were waiting for Clancy to arrive. Rockwell muttered something under his breath.

“I’ll give you a job as mechanic’s helper at fifty a month to start,” said he, “and I’ll trust you to do the right thing by me. Is it a go?”

“Yes,” Clancy answered. “When am I to begin?”

“To-morrow morning.”

As Clancy got out of the car in the garage, he turned to find Judge Pembroke at his elbow.

“I’ve just discharged Hibbard,” said he, “and I want another driver. I’ll give you seventy-five a month to work for me, Clancy. Will you take the place?”

Clancy, for a moment, was “stumped.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” he answered, “but I’ve just hired out to Mr. Rockwell.”

“You’re not half as sorry as I am,” said the judge, turning away. “If you don’t like it here, come and see me.”

Rockwell, just getting out of the car, chuckled, under his breath.