“Yes, you. Who else would I mean?”
“Hit’s due, ain’t hit—my money?”
“Due at noon to-day and noon is still ten minutes 128 off. I’m not sure the company didn’t make a mistake in allowing you such a generous compensation for your accident.” There was a pause, then Faggott added argumentatively: “Your damage suit would have come to naught, most likely.”
“Thet ain’t ther way ye talked when I lawed ther comp’ny,” whined the blind man. “Ye ’peared to be right ambitious ter settle outen co’te in them days, Mr. Faggott.”
“The company didn’t want the thing hanging on. They got cold feet. Well, I’ll give you your check.”
“I’d ruther have hit in cash money—silver money,” stipulated the recipient of the compromise settlement. “I kin count thet over by ther feel of hit.”
Faggott snorted his disgust but he deposited in the outstretched palm the amount that fell due on each quarterly pay day, and the visitor thumbed over every coin and tested the edges of all with his teeth. After that, instead of rising to go, he sat silently reflective.
“That’s all, ain’t it,” demanded the attorney, and something like a pallid grin lifted the lip corners in the blind man’s ugly face.
“Not quite all,” replied Joe Givins as he shook his head. “No, thar’s one other leetle matter yit. I’d love ter hev ye write me a letter ter ther comp’ny’s boss-man in Looeyville. I kinderly aims ter go thar an’ see him.”
This time it was the attorney who, with an incredulity-freighted voice, demanded: “Who, you?”