“And I know you,” said his wife.  “I know you. ...  What do you want here?”

“I came to see Jim,” said Bonbright.  “I didn’t know he was hurt until a few minutes ago. ...  It’s useless to say I’m sorry.”

“They made him work on that machine.  He knowed it wasn’t safe. ...  He had to work on it or lose his job. ...”

“I know that now, Mrs. Hammil. ...  What was he earning?”

“Two-seventy-five a day. ...  And now. ...  How’ll we live, with him in the hospital and maybe never able to work again?”

“Here...” protested Hammil, weakly, glaring at Bonbright.  “We’ll come out all right.  He’ll pay. ...  You’ll pay, that’s what you will.  A jury’ll make you pay.  Wait till I kin see my lawyer. ...”

“You won’t need any lawyer, Jim,” said Bonbright.  It was hard for him to talk.  He could not speak to these people as he wanted to, nor say the words that would make their way through their despair and rage to their hearts.  “You won’t need any lawyer,” he repeated.

“If you think I’m—­goin’—­to sign—­one of them—­releases—­you’re damn—­mistaken,” moaned the man.

“Jim,” said Bonbright, “you needn’t sign anything. ...  What’s done can’t be mended. ...  It was bad.  It was criminal...”

“Mr. Foote,” protested the young lawyer.

“I’ll attend to this,” said Bonbright, shortly.  “It’s between Jim and me. ...  I’ll make it as nearly right as it can be made. ...  First we’ll have you out of this ward into a room. ...  As long as you are laid up your wife shall have your full pay every week, and then you and I will have a talk to see what can be done.  Only don’t worry. ...  Don’t worry, Mrs. Hammil. ...”

Hammil uttered a sound that was intended for a laugh.  “You can’t catch me,” he said, in a dreadful voice.  “I’m—­up to—­them sharp tricks. ...  You’re lyin’. ...  Git out of here, both of you. ...  You’re—­jest here—­to cheat me.”

“You’re wrong, Jim.”

“I know—­you and—­your kind,” Jim said, trying to lift himself on his elbow.  “I know—­what you—­done durin’—­the strike. ...  I had a baby—­ and she—­died. ...  You killed her!” His voice rose almost to a scream.

“Better go, sir,” said a nurse.  “He’s hurting himself.”

Bonbright gazed at her blankly.  “How can I go?” he asked.  “He won’t believe me.  He’s got to believe me. ...”

“You lie!... you lie!...”  Hammil cried.  “I won’t talk-to you. ...  My lawyer’ll—­do my talkin’.”

Bonbright paused a moment.  Then he saw it would do no good to remain.  The man’s mind was poisoned against him; was unable to conceive of a man in Bonbright’s place meaning him otherwise than treachery. ...  It went deeper than suspicion of an individual; it was suspicion of a class.

“I’ll do what I promised, Jim. ...  That’ll prove it to you.”

“You—­lie. ...  You lie...” the man called after him, and Bonbright heard the words repeated again and again as he walked down the long corridor.