SImeon was looking over his mail, grumbling and fussing. He pushed a pile of letters toward John when he returned from luncheon. “They’re coming in—thick and fast,” he said.
“What are they?”
“Damages.” He was scowling absently at the sheet in his hand. “Mail was full of it this morning. Here’s another.” He tossed it to the boy.
John gathered them up, looking at them thoughtfully.
“Take ’em to McKinnon,” said Simeon. “He ’ll tend to ’em for us.”
“Shall I read them first?”
Simeon snorted a little. “Read ’em?—Yes, read ’em, if you want to. You won’t find them very entertaining. I did n’t.”
The boy was turning them over slowly.
“I ’ll pay ’em—every just claim,” said the old man. His shoulders were hunched a little forward, as if he were talking to himself. “I ’ll pay the just ones—every last cent. But the fakes can look out—that’s all!” His jaw set itself firmly.
The boy had taken them to his desk and was going through them, making notes from them slowly. The heavy look in his face held a kind of pain. He was seeing it again—the wreck—the flare of fire; there were groans about him and shrill calls—hysterical women—and there had been a child.... He glanced across at Simeon.