TOM GROGAN
was cut from whole cloth. He had never known an adjuster in his life.
“What's that?” asked Tom, still looking square at him, Quigg squirming under her glance like a worm on a pin.
“Well, the company can't tell how much feed was in the bins, and tools, and sech like,” he said, with another laugh.
A laugh is always a safe parry when a pair of clear gray search-light eyes are cutting into one like a rapier.
“An' yer idea is for me to git paid for stuff that wasn't burned up, is it?”
“Well, that's as how the adjuster says. Sometimes he sees it an' sometimes he don't—that's where the pull comes in.”
Tom put her arms akimbo, her favorite attitude when her anger began to rise.
“Oh I see! The pull is in bribin' the adjuster, as ye call him, so he can cheat the company.”
Quigg shrugged his shoulders; that part of the transaction was a mere trifle. What were companies made for but to be cheated?
Tom stood for a minute looking him all over.
“Dennis Quigg,” she said slowly, weighing
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