"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.