Tom Grogan by F. Hopkinson SmithPart 3 out of 3Four members seconded it. "Is Mr. McGaw's bondsman present?" asked the president, rising. Justice Rowan rose, and bowed with the air of a foreign banker accepting a government loan. "I have that honor, Mr. Prisident. I am willing to back Mr. McGaw to the extent of me humble possissions, which are ample, I trust, for the purposes of this contract"--looking around with an air of entire confidence. "Gentlemen, are you ready for the question?" asked the president. At this instant there was a slight commotion at the end of the hall. Half a dozen men nearest the door left their seats and crowded to the top of the staircase. Then came a voice outside: "Fall back; don't block up the door! Get back there!" The excitement was so great that the proceedings of the board were stopped. The throng parted, The men near the table stood still. An ominous silence suddenly prevailed. Daniel McGaw twisted his head, turned ghastly white, and would have fallen from his chair but for Dempsey. Advancing through the door with slow, measured tread, her long cloak reaching to her feet; erect, calm, fearless; her face like chalk; her lips compressed, stifling the agony of every step; her eyes deep sunken, black-rimmed, burning like coals; her brow bound with a blood-stained handkerchief that barely hid the bandages beneath, came Tom. The deathly hush was unbroken. The men fell back with white, scared faces to let her pass. McGaw cowered in his chair. Dempsey's eyes glistened, a half-sigh of relief escaping him. Crimmins had not moved; the apparition stunned him. On she came, her eyes fixed on the president, till she reached the table. Then she steadied herself for a moment, took a roll of papers from her dress, and sank into a chair. No one spoke. The crowd pressed closer. Those outside the rail noiselessly mounted the benches and chairs, craning their necks. Every eye was fixed upon her. Slowly and carefully she unrolled the contract, spreading it out before her, picked up a pen from the table, and without a word wrote her name. Then she rose firmly, and walked steadily to the door. Just then a man entered within the rail and took her seat. It was her bondsman, Mr. Crane. XVI A FRIEND IN NEED Two days after Tom had signed the highway contract, Babcock sat in his private office in New York, opening his mail. In the outside room were half a dozen employees--engineers and others--awaiting their instructions. The fine spring weather had come and work had been started in every direction, including the second section of the sea-wall at the depot, where the divers were preparing the bottom for the layers of concrete. Tom's carts had hauled the stone. Tucked into the pile of letters heaped before him, Babcock's quick eye caught the corner of a telegram. It read as follows:-- Mother hurt. Wants you immediately. Please come. JENNIE GROGAN. For an instant he sat motionless, gazing at the yellow slip. Then he sprang to his feet. Thrusting his unopened correspondence into his pocket, he gave a few hurried instructions to his men and started for the ferry. Once on the boat, he began pacing the deck. "Tom hurt!" he repeated to himself. "Tom hurt? How--when--what could have hurt her?" He had seen her at the sea-wall, only three days before, rosy-cheeked, magnificent in health and strength. What had happened? At the St. George landing he jumped into a hack, hurrying the cabman. Jennie was watching for him at the garden gate. She said her mother was in the sitting-room, and Gran'pop was with her. As they walked up the path she recounted rapidly the events of the past two days. Tom was on the lounge by the window, under the flowering plants, when Babcock entered. She was apparently asleep. Across her forehead, covering the temples, two narrow bandages bound up her wound. At Babcock's step she opened her eyes, her bruised, discolored face breaking into a smile. Then, noting his evident anxiety, she threw the shawl from her shoulders and sat up. "No, don't look so. It's nothin'; I'll be all right in a day or two. I've been hurted before, but not so bad as this. I wouldn't have troubled ye, but Mr. Crane has gone West. It was kind and friendly o' ye to come; I knew ye would." Babcock nodded to Pop, and sank into a chair. The shock of her appearance had completely unnerved him. "Jennie has told me about it," he said in a tender, sympathetic tone. "Who was mean enough to serve you in this way, Tom?" He called her Tom now, as the others did. "Well, I won't say now. It may have been the horse, but I hardly think it, for I saw a face. All I remember clear is a-layin' me hand on the mare's back. When I come to I was flat on the lounge. They had fixed me up, and Dr. Mason had gone off. Only the thick hood saved me. Carl and Cully searched the place, but nothin' could be found. Cully says he heard somebody a-runnin' on the other side of the fence, but ye can't tell. Nobody keeps their heads in times like that." "Have you been in bed ever since?" Babcock asked. "In bed! God rest ye! I was down to the board meetin' two hours after, wid Mr. Crane, and signed the contract. Jennie and all of 'em wouldn't have it, and cried and went on, but I braved 'em all. I knew I had to go if I died for it. Mr. Crane had his buggy, so I didn't have to walk. The stairs was the worst. Once inside, I was all right. I only had to sign, an' come out again; it didn't take a minute. Mr. Crane stayed and fixed the bonds wid the trustees, an' I come home wid Carl and Jennie." Then, turning to her father, she said, "Gran'pop, will ye and Jennie go into the kitchen for a while? I've some private business wid Mr. Babcock." When they were gone her whole manner changed. She buried her face for a moment in the pillow, covering her cheek with her hands; then, turning to Babcock, she said:-- "Now, me friend, will ye lock the door?" For some minutes she looked out of the window, through the curtains and nasturtiums, then, in a low, broken voice, she said: "I'm in great trouble. Will ye help me?" "Help you, Tom? You know I will, and with anything I've got. What is it!" he said earnestly, regaining his chair and drawing it closer. "Has no one iver told ye about me Tom?" she asked, looking at him from under her eyebrows. "No; except that he was hurt or--or--out of his mind, maybe, and you couldn't bring him home." "An' ye have heared nothin' more?" "No," said Babcock, wondering at her anxious manner. "Ye know that since he went away I've done the work meself, standin' out as he would have done in the cold an' wet an' workin' for the children wid nobody to help me but these two hands." Babcock nodded. He knew how true it was. "Ye've wondered many a time, maybe, that I niver brought him home an' had him round wid me other poor cripple, Patsy--them two togither." Her voice fell almost to a whisper. "Or ye thought, maybe, it was mean and cruel in me that I kep' him a burden on the State, when I was able to care for him meself. Well, ye'll think so no more." Babcock began to see now why he had been sent for. His heart went out to her all the more. "Tom, is your husband dead?" he asked, with a quiver in his voice. She never took her eyes from his face. Few people were ever tender with her; they never seemed to think she needed it. She read this man's sincerity and sympathy in his eyes; then she answered slowly:-- "He is, Mr. Babcock." "When did he die! Was it last night, Tom?" "Listen to me fust, an' then I'll tell ye. Ye must know that when me Tom was hurted, seven years ago, we had a small place, an' only three horses, and them warn't paid for; an' we had the haulin' at the brewery, an' that was about all we did have. When Tom had been sick a month--it was the time the bucket fell an' broke his rib--the new contract at the brewery was let for the year, an' Schwartz give it to us, a-thinkin' that Tom'd be round ag'in, an' niver carin', so's his work was done, an' I doin' it, me bein' big an' strong, as I always was. Me Tom got worse an' worse, an' I saw him a-failin', an' one day Dr. Mason stopped an' said if I brought him to Bellevue Hospital, where he had just been appointed, he'd fix up his rib so he could breathe easier, and maybe he'd get well. Well, I hung on an' on, thinkin' he'd get better,--poor fellow, he didn't want to go,--but one night, about dark, I took the Big Gray an' put him to the cart, an' bedded it down wid straw; an' I wrapped me Tom up in two blankits an' carried him downstairs in me own arms, an' driv slow to the ferry." She hesitated for a moment, leaned her bruised head on her hand, and then went on:-- "When I got to Bellevue, over by the river, it was near ten o'clock at night. Nobody stopped me or iver looked into me bundle of straw where me poor boy lay; an' I rung the bell, an' they came out, an' got him up into the ward, an' laid him on the bed. Dr. Mason was on night duty, an' come an' looked at him, an' said I must come over the next day; an' I kissed me poor Tom an' left him tucked in, promisin' to be back early in the mornin'. I had got only as far as the gate on the street whin one of the men came a-runnin' after me. I thought he had fainted, and ran back as fast as I could, but when I got me arms under him again--he was dead." "And all this seven years ago, Tom?" said Babcock in astonishment, sinking back in his chair. Tom bowed her head. The tears were trickling through her fingers and falling on the coarse shawl. "Yis; seven years ago this June." She paused for a moment, as if the scene was passing before her in every detail, and then went on: "Whin I come home I niver said a word to anybody but Jennie. I've niver told Pop yit. Nobody else would have cared; we was strangers here. The next mornin' I took Jennie,--she was a child then,--an' we wint over to the city, an' I got what money I had, an' the doctors helped, an' we buried him; nobody but just us two, Jennie an' me, walkin' behint the wagon, his poor body in the box. Whin I come home I wanted to die, but I said nothin'. I was afraid Schwartz would take the work away if he knew it was only a woman who was a-doin' it wid no man round, an so I kep' on; an' whin the neighbors asked about him bein' in a 'sylum an' out of his head, an' a cripple an' all that, God forgive me, I was afraid to tell, and I kept still and let it go at that; an' whin they asked me how he was I'd say he was better, or more comfortable, or easier; an' so he was, thank God! bein' in heaven." She roused herself wearily, and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Babcock sat motionless. "Since that I've kep' the promise to me Tom that I made on me knees beside his bed the night I lifted him in me arms to take him downstairs--that I 'd keep his name clean, and do by it as he would hev done himself, an' bring up the children, an' hold the roof over their heads. An' now they say I dar'n't be called by Tom's name, nor sign it neither, an' they're a-goin' to take me contract away for puttin' his name at the bottom of it, just as I've put it on ivery other bit o' paper I've touched ink to these seven years since he left me." "Why, Tom, this is nonsense. Who says so?" said Babcock earnestly, glad of any change of feeling to break the current of her thoughts. "Dan McGaw an' Rowan says so." "What's McGaw got to do with it? He's out of the fight." "Oh, ye don't know some men, Mr. Babcock. McGaw'll never stop fightin' while I live. Maybe I oughtn't tell ye,--I've niver told anybody,--but whin my Tom lay sick upstairs, McGaw come in one night, an' his own wife half dead with a blow he had given her, an' sat down in this very room,--it was our kitchen then,--an' he says,' If your man don't git well, ye'll be broke.' An' I says to him, 'Dan McGaw, if I live twelve months, Tom Grogan'll be a richer man than he is now.' I was a-sittin' right here when I said it, wid a rag carpet on this floor, an' hardly any furniture in the room. He said more things, an' tried to make love to me, and I let drive and threw him out of me kitchen. Then all me trouble wid him began; he's done everything to beat me since, and now maybe, after all, he'll down me. It all come up yisterday through McGaw meetin' Dr. Mason an' askin' him about me Tom; an' whin the doctor told him Tom was dead seven years, McGaw runs to Justice Rowan wid the story, an' now they say I can't sign a dead man's name. Judge Bowker has the papers, an' it's all to be settled to-morrow." "But they can't take your contract away," said Babcock indignantly, "no matter what Rowan says." "Oh, it's not that--it's not that. That's not what hurts me. I can git another contract. That's not what breaks me heart. But if they take me Tom's NAME from me, an' say I can't be Tom Grogan any more; it's like robbin' me of my life. When I work on the docks I allus brace myself an' say' I'm doing just what Tom did many a day for me.' When I sign his name to me checks an' papers,--the name I've loved an' that I've worked for, the name I've kep' clean for him--me Tom that loved me, an' never lied or was mean--me Tom that I promised, an'--an'"-- All the woman in her overcame her now. Sinking to her knees, she threw her arms and head on the lounge, and burst into tears. Babcock rested his head on his hand, and looked on in silence. Here was something, it seemed to him, too sacred for him to touch even with his sympathy. "Tom," he said, when she grew more quiet, his whole heart going out to her, "what do you want me to do?" "I don't know that ye can do anything," she said in a quivering voice, lifting her head, her eyes still wet. "Perhaps nobody can. But I thought maybe ye'd go wid me to Judge Bowker in the mornin'. Rowan an' all of 'em 'll be there, an' I'm no match for these lawyers. Perhaps ye'd speak to the judge for me." Babcock held out his hand. "I knew ye would, an' I thank ye," she said, drying her eyes. "Now unlock the door, an' let 'em in. They worry so. Gran'pop hasn't slep' a night since I was hurted, an' Jennie goes round cryin' all the time, sayin' they 'll be a-killin' me next." Then, rising to her feet, she called out in a cheery voice, as Babcock opened the door, "Come in, Jennie; come in Gran'pop. It's all over, child. Mr. Babcock's a-going wid me in the mornin'. Niver fear; we'll down 'em all yit." XVII A DANIEL COME TO JUDGMENT When Judge Bowker entered his office adjoining the village bank, Justice Rowan had already arrived. So had McGaw, Dempsey, Crimmins, Quigg, the president of the board, and one or two of the trustees. The judge had sent for McGaw and the president, and they had notified the others. McGaw sat next to Dempsey. His extreme nervousness of a few days ago--starting almost at the sound of his own footstep--had given place to a certain air of bravado, now that everybody in the village believed the horse had kicked Tom. Babcock and Tom were by the window, she listless and weary, he alert and watchful for the slightest point in her favor. She had on her brown dress, washed clean of the blood-stains, and the silk hood, which better concealed the bruises. All her old fire and energy were gone. It was not from the shock of her wound,--her splendid constitution was fast healing that,--but from this deeper hurt, this last thrust of McGaw's which seemed to have broken her indomitable spirit. Babcock, although he did not betray his misgivings, was greatly worried over the outcome of McGaw's latest scheme. He wished in his secret heart that Tom had signed her own name to the contract. He was afraid so punctilious a man as the judge might decide against her. He had never seen him; he only knew that no other judge in his district had so great a reputation for technical rulings. When the judge entered--a small, gray-haired, keen-eyed man in a black suit, with gold spectacles, spotless linen, and clean-shaven face--Babcock's fears were confirmed. This man, he felt, would be legally exact, no matter who suffered by his decision. Rowan opened the case, the judge listening attentively, looking over his glasses. Rowan recounted the details of the advertisement, the opening of the bids, the award of the contract, the signing of "Thomas Grogan" in the presence of the full board, and the discovery by his "honored client that no such man existed, had not existed for years, and did not now exist." "Dead, your Honor"--throwing out his chest impressively, his voice swelling--"dead in his grave these siven years, this Mr. Thomas Grogan; and yet this woman has the bald and impudent effrontery to"-- "That will do, Mr. Rowan." Police justices--justices like Rowan--did not count much with Judge Bowker, and then he never permitted any one to abuse a woman in his presence. "The point you make is that Mrs. Grogan had no right to sign her name to a contract made out in the name of her dead husband." "I do, your Honor," said Rowan, resuming his seat. "Why did you sign it?" asked Judge Bowker, turning to Tom. She looked at Babcock. He nodded assent, and then she answered:-- "I allus signed it so since he left me." There was a pleading, tender pathos in her words that startled Babcock. He could hardly believe the voice to be Tom's. The judge looked at her with a quick, penetrating glance, which broadened into an expression of kindly interest when he read her entire honesty in her face. Then he turned to the president of the board. "When you awarded this contract, whom did you expect to do the work, Mrs. Grogan or her husband.' " "Mrs. Grogan, of course. She has done her own work for years," answered the president. The judge tapped the arm of his chair with his pencil. The taps could be heard all over the room. Most men kept quiet in Bowker's presence, even men like Rowan. For some moments his Honor bent over the desk and carefully examined the signed contract spread out before him; then he pushed it back, and glanced about the room. "Is Mr. Crane, the bondsman, present?" "Mr. Crane has gone West, sir," said Babcock, rising. "I represent Mrs. Grogan in this matter." "Did Mr. Crane sign this bond knowing that Mrs. Grogan would haul the stone?" "He did; and I can add that all her checks, receipts, and correspondence are signed in the same way, and have been for years. She is known everywhere as Tom Grogan. She has never had any other name--in her business." "Who else objects to this award?" said the judge calmly. Rowan sprang to his feet. The judge looked at him. "Please sit down, Justice Rowan. I said 'who else.' I have heard you." He knew Rowan. Dempsey jumped from his chair. "I'm opposed to it, yer Honor, an' so is all me fri'nds here. This woman has been invited into the Union, and treats us as if we was dogs. She"-- "Are you a bidder for this work?" asked the judge. "No, sir; but the Union has rights, and"-- "Please take your seat; only bidders can be heard now." "But who's to stand up for the rights of the laborin' man if"-- "You can, if you choose; but not here. This is a question of evidence." "Who's Bowker anyhow?" said Dempsey behind his hand to Quigg. "Ridin' 'round in his carriage and chokin' off free speech?" After some moments of thought the judge turned to the president of the board, and said in a measured, deliberate voice:-- "This signature, in my opinion, is a proper one. No fraud is charged, and under the testimony none was intended. The law gives Mrs. Grogan the right to use any title she chooses in conducting her business--her husband's name, or any other. The contract must stand as it is." Here the judge arose and entered his private office, shutting the door behind him. Tom had listened with eyes dilating, every nerve in her body at highest tension. Her contempt for Rowan in his abuse of her; her anger against Dempsey at his insults; her gratitude to Babcock as he stood up to defend her; her fears for the outcome, as she listened to the calm, judicial voice of the judge,--each producing a different sensation of heat and cold,--were all forgotten in the wild rush of joy that surged through her as the judge's words fell upon her ear. She shed no tears, as other women might have done. Every fibre of her being seemed to be turned to steel. She was herself again--she, Tom Grogan!--firm on her own feet, with her big arms ready to obey her, and her head as clear as a bell, master of herself, master of her rights, master of everything about her. And, above all, master of the dear name of her Tom that nothing could take from her now--not even the law! With this tightening of her will power there quivered through her a sense of her own wrongs--the wrongs she had endured for years, the wrongs that had so nearly wrecked her life. Then, forgetting the office, the still solemnity of the place--even Babcock--she walked straight up to McGaw, blocking his exit to the street door. "Dan McGaw, there's a word I've got for ye before ye l'ave this place, an' I'm a-going to say it to ye now before ivery man in this room." McGaw shrank back in alarm. "You an' I have known each other since the time I nursed yer wife when yer boy Jack was born, an' helped her through when she was near dyin' from a kick ye give her. Ye began yer dirty work on me one night when me Tom lay sick, an' I threw ye out o' me kitchen; an' since that time ye've"-- "Here! I ain't a-goin' ter stand here an' listen ter yer. Git out o' me way, or I'll"-- Tom stepped closer, her eyes flashing, every word ringing clear. "Stand still, an' hear what I've got to say to ye, or I'll go into that room and make a statement to the judge that'll put ye where ye won't move for years. There was enough light for me to see. Look at this"--drawing back her hood, and showing the bandaged scar. McGaw seemed to shrivel up; the crowd stood still in amazement. "I thought ye would. Now, I'll go on. Since that night in me kitchen ye 've tried to ruin me in ivery other way ye could. Ye've set these dead beats Crimmins and Quigg on to me to coax away me men; ye've stirred up the Union; ye burned me stable"-- "Ye lie! It's a tramp did it," snarled McGaw. "Ye better keep still till I get through, Dan McGaw. I've got the can that helt the ker'sene, an' I know where yer boy Billy bought it, an' who set him up to it," she added, looking straight at Crimmins. "He might'a' been a dacent boy but for him." Crimmins turned pale and bit his lip. The situation became intense. Even the judge, who had come out of his private room at the attack, listened eagerly. "Ye've been a sneak an' a coward to serve a woman so who never harmed ye. Now I give ye fair warnin', an' I want two or three other men in this room to listen; if this don't stop, ye'll all be behint bars where ye belong.--I mean you, too, Mr. Dempsey. As for you, Dan McGaw, if it warn't for yer wife Kate, who's a dacent woman, ye'd go to-day. Now, one thing more, an' I'll let ye go. I've bought yer chattel mortgage of Mr. Crane that's past due, an' I can do wid it as I pl'ase. You'll send to me in the mornin' two of yer horses to take the places of those ye burned up, an' if they're not in my stable by siven o'clock I'll be round yer way 'bout nine with the sheriff." Once outside in the sunlight, she became herself again. The outburst had cleared her soul like a thunder-clap. She felt as free as air. The secret that had weighed her down for years was off her mind. What she had whispered to her own heart she could now proclaim from the housetops. Even the law protected her. Babcock walked beside her, silent and grave. She seemed to him like some Joan with flaming sword. When they reached the road that led to her own house, her eyes fell upon Jennie and Carl. They had walked down behind them, and were waiting under the trees. "There's one thing more ye can do for me, my friend," she said, turning to Babcock. "All the old things Tom an' I did togither I can do by meself; but it's new things like Carl an' Jennie that trouble me--the new things I can't ask him about. Do ye see them two yonder! Am I free to do for 'em as I would? No; ye needn't answer. I see it in yer face. Come here, child; I want ye. Give me yer hand." For an instant she stood looking into their faces, her eyes brimming. Then she took Jennie's hand, slipped it into Carl's, and laying her big, strong palm over the two, said slowly: "Now go home, both o' ye, to the house that'll shelter ye, pl'ase God, as long as ye live." ------------- Before the highway-work was finished, McGaw was dead and Billy and Crimmins in Sing Sing. The label on the empty can, Quigg's volunteered testimony, and Judge Bowker's charge, convinced the jury. Quigg had quarreled with Crimmins and the committee, and took that way of getting even. When Tom heard the news, she left her teams standing in the road and went straight to McGaw's house. His widow sat on a broken chair in an almost empty room. "Don't cry, Katy," said Tom, bending over her. "I'm sorry for Billy. Seems to me, ye've had a lot o' trouble since Dan was drowned. It was not all Billy's fault. It was Crimmins that put him up to it. But ye've one thing left, and that's yer boy Jack. Let me take him--I'll make a man of him." . . . . . . . . . Jack is still with her. Tom says he is the best man in her gang. -------------
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