"No."
"Den you'se bugs."
"Why so?"
"Dis 'ere is crank shop. Dey never put a mug 'ere 'cept he's bugs, or else dey got it in for you."
"How do you happen to be here?"
"Me? De God damn —— got it in for me. See dis?" He points to a deep gash over his temple. "Had a scrap wid de screws. Almost knocked me glimmer out. It was dat big bull[17] dere, Pete Hoods. I'll get even wid him, all right, damn his rotten soul. I'll kill him. By God, I will. I'll croak 'ere, anyhow."
"Perhaps it isn't so bad," I try to encourage him.
"It ain't, eh? Wat d'you know 'bout it? I've got the con bad, spittin' blood every night. Dis dust's killin' me. Kill you, too, damn quick."
As if to emphasize his words, he is seized with a fit of coughing, prolonged and hollow.
The shuttle has in the meantime become entangled in the fringes of the matting. Recovering his breath, Jim snatches the knife at his side, and with a few deft strokes releases the metal. To and fro flies the gleaming thing, and Jim is again absorbed in his task.