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. The old man’s face, bent to his work, was gray and haggard. He looked up, meeting the boy’s eye. “It ’s a terrible thing!” he said as if answering the look. “I can’t get it out of my mind.” His hand shook a little reaching for the paper. “I’d give the year’s profits--” he said slowly. “Have to,” said the boy quietly. The shrewd business look flashed back to the man’s face. “You can’t tell,” he said brusquely. “We shall settle ’em out of court--all we can.” “Won’t it cost more?” “A little, maybe. Some we ’ll pay a little more, perhaps, than the court would allow. But it ’s cheaper--in the end. The public won’t get scared. It’s bad having things gone over and raked up for folks to read. Let ’em sleep. We ’re ready and willing to pay costs--Keep the thing quiet. It’s only the fakes that bother--” He gave a little sigh. The boy was staring at the letter in his hand. He put it down and crossed to Simeon’s desk, taking oat the handful of notes he had made the night of the wreck. He ran them through his fingers and replaced them, smiling a little. “What’s tha?” asked Simeon. “I wanted to see if I made a note. I don’t think I did, but I can remember.” He went over and picked up the letter again. “It ’s this man Spaulding.” A light shot to Simeon’s face. “I think I saw him there.” “You did!” The light had gone out suddenly. “Fight it--You testify in court.” The boy was looking down at the letter thoughtfully. “It ’s a good thing I asked,” he said. “Asked what?” “His name,” said the hoy. “I don’t know why I did it. One of the brakemen told me. He limps a little, does n’t he?”