"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.
"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?"