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Alexandre Dumas - "The Black Tulip"

Charles Dickens - "Bleak House"

Washington Irving - "The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent."

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Tom Grogan by F. Hopkinson Smith

F >> F. Hopkinson Smith >> Tom Grogan by F. Hopkinson Smith




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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