“Mr. Paret, is it?” he asked, as we stood together for a moment on the sidewalk outside the court. “You have managed this well. I will remember.”
He was sued, of course. When he came to the office he insisted on discussing the case with Mr. Watling, who sent for me.
“That is a bright young man,” Mr. Weill declared, shaking my hand. “He will get on.”
“Some day,” said Mr. Watling, “he may save you a lot of money, Weill.”
“When my friend Mr. Watling is United States Senator,—eh?”
Mr. Watling laughed. “Before that, I hope. I advise you to compromise this suit, Weill,” he added. “How would a thousand dollars strike you? I've had Paret look up the case, and he tells me the little girl has had to have an operation.”
“A thousand dollars!” cried the grocer. “What right have these people to let their children play on the streets? It's an outrage.”
“Where else have the children to play?” Mr. Watling touched his arm. “Weill,” he said gently, “suppose it had been your little girl?” The grocer pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his bald forehead. But he rallied a little.
“You fight these damage cases for the street railroads all through the courts.”
“Yes,” Mr. Watling agreed, “but there a principle is involved. If the railroads once got into the way of paying damages for every careless employee, they would soon be bankrupt through blackmail. But here you have a child whose father is a poor janitor and can't afford sickness. And your coachman, I imagine, will be more particular in the future.”