“Open shop?”

“Yes.”

“You won’t recognize any union?  I want to know how I stand with them at the beginning.”

“I’ll recognize no union,” said Bonbright.

The card of a young man from Richmond’s office was brought in.  Bonbright sent word for him to be admitted.

“I came about that Hammil accident case,” said the young man.  “Hammil was hurt yesterday, pretty badly, and the report makes it look as if we’d be stuck if the thing goes to a jury.”

“I know nothing about it,” said Bonbright, with a little shock.  It was possible, then, for a man to be maimed or killed in his own plant and news of it to reach him after days or perhaps never.  He made a note to rectify that state of affairs.  “You mean that this man Hammil was hurt through our fault?”

“I’m afraid a jury would say so.”  The young man explained the accident in detail.  “He complained about the condition of his machine, and his foreman told him he could stick to his job there or quit.”

“Forced him to work on an unsafe machine or quit?”

“Yes.”

Bonbright stared at his blotter a moment.  “What did you want to see me about?”

“We’d better settle.  Right now I can probably run up and put a wad of bills under Hammil’s nose and his wife’s, and it’ll look pretty big.  Before some ambulance-chaser gets hold of him.  He hasn’t been able to talk until awhile ago, so nobody’s seen him.”

“Your idea is that we could settle for less than a jury would give him?”

The young man laughed.  “A jury’d give him four or five thousand, maybe more.  Doctor says the injury is permanent.  I’ve settled more than one like it for three or four hundred.”

“The man won’t be able to work again?”

“Won’t be good for much.”

“And we’re responsible!” Bonbright said it to himself, not to the young man.  “Is this thing done often—­settling these things for—­what we can squeeze them down to?”

“Of course.”  The young man was calloused.  His job was to settle claims and save money.  His value increased as his settlements were small.

“Where’s Hammil?”

“At the General Hospital.”

Bonbright got up and went to the closet for his hat.  “Come on,” he said.

“You’re not going up there, are you?”

“Yes.”

“But—­but I can handle it all right, Mr. Foote.  There’s no need to bother you.”

“I’ve no doubt you can handle it—­maybe too well,” said Bonbright.

They were driven to the hospital and shown up to Jim Hammil’s room.  His wife was there, pale, tearless, by his bedside.  Jim was bandaged, groaning, in agony.  Bonbright’s lips lost their color.  He felt guilty.  It was he who had put this man where he was, had smashed him.  It was his fault.

He walked to the bedside.  “Jim,” he said, “I am Mr. Foote.”

“I—­know—­you,” said the man between teeth set to hold back his groans.