“Eleven dollars and fifty cents,” said Doan.
“You owe twenty.”
“I aim to pay it when the hens begin to lay.”
Hazen laughed scornfully.
“You aim to pay! Damn you, Marshey, if your old farm was worth taking I’d have you out in this snow, you old scamp!”
Doan pleaded dully: “Don’t you do that, Mr. Kinch! I aim to pay.”
Hazen clapped his hands on the table.
“Rats! Come! Give me what you’ve got! And, Marshey, you'll have to get the rest. I’m sick of waiting on you.”
Marshey came shuffling toward the table. Hazen was sitting with the table between him and the man and I was a little behind Hazen at one side. Marshey blinked as he came nearer, and his weak nearsighted eyes turned from Hazen to me. I could see that the man was stiff with the cold.
When he came to the table in front of Hazen he took off his thick gloves. His hands were blue. He laid the gloves on the table and reached into an inner pocket of his torn coat and drew out a little cloth pouch and he fumbled into this and I heard the clink of coins. He drew out two quarters and laid them on the table before Hazen, and Hazen picked them up. I saw that Marshey’s fingers moved stiffly; I could almost hear them creak with the cold. Then he reached into the pouch again.
Something dropped out of the mouth of the little cloth bag and fell soundlessly on the table. It looked to me like a bill, a piece of paper currency. I was about to speak, but Hazen, without an instant’s hesitation, had dropped his hand on the thing and drawn it unostentatiously toward him. When he lifted his hand the money—if it was money—was gone.
Marshey drew out a little roll of worn bills. Hazen took them out of his hand and counted them swiftly.
“All right,” he said. “Eleven-fifty. I'll give you a receipt. But you mind me, Doan Marshey, you get the rest before the month’s out. I’ve been too slack with you.”
