“Av coorse, thot’s moindin’ what Oi do be afther tellin’ you, Sorr.”
“Good lord, man! For nearly nine years then. Will that satisfy you? We’ll never finish if you keep this up!”
“’Tis dumb Oi am, Sorr.”
Clancy’s big hands waved off further reproaches in a little gesture half soothing, half disclaiming.
Then all intelligence faded from his face, and he sat with closed eyes, punctuating my sentences with nodding head, as I continued from the text of the affidavit.
“During those nine years” (Clancy winced, but kept silent), “he was engaged as a porter in the Company’s main office, in Fulton Street. On the morning of May 15, 1896, while engaged in sorting merchandise on the fourth floor of said building, a shelf on the north side of the room gave way, and a keg of nails fell upon his spine, inflicting serious injuries.
“Deponent did not erect said shelf, nor was the same erected under his direction, nor was the merchandise upon it placed there by deponent or deponent’s orders.
“Deponent further avers that he never knew the said shelf was unsafe, although the Superintendent had been told that one of its brackets needed repairing.”