“The coal-yard is down this way, Griggs,” he said. “Come along. It won't take more than five or ten minutes.”
Now, the idea of walking down to the coal-yard certainly seemed commonplace and harmless. To me it suggested nothing more sinister than a super-heated Irish lady perspiring over Hawkins' range in the dog days.
At least, it suggested nothing more at the time, and I turned the corner with Hawkins and walked on, unsuspecting.
Except that it belonged to a particularly large concern, the coal-yard which Hawkins honored by his patronage was much like other coal-yards. The high walls of the storage bins rose from the sidewalk, and there was the conventional arch for the wagons, and the little, dingy office beside it.
Into the latter Hawkins made his way, while I loitered without.
Hawkins seemed to be upon good terms with the coal people. He and the men in the office were laughing genially.
Through the open window I heard Hawkins file his order for four tons of coal. Later some one said: “Splendid, Mr. Hawkins, splendid.”
Then somebody else said: “No, there seems to be no flaw in any particular.”
And still later, the first voice announced that they would make the first payment one week from to-day, at which Hawkins' voice rose with a sort of pompous joy.
I paid very little heed to the scraps of conversation; but presently I paid considerable attention to Hawkins, for while he had entered the coal office a well-developed man, he emerged apparently deformed.