“. . . wid McGeechy--
McGeechy of the Fourth.”
“Dan McGaw's giv'n it to you straight,” said Lathers, stopping for a
last word, his face thrust through the window again. “He's rigged for
this business, and Grogan ain't in it with him. If she wants her work
done right, she ought to send down something with a mustache.”
Here the song subsided in a prolonged chuckle. McGaw turned, and caught
sight of a boy's head, with its mop of black hair thrust through a
crownless hat, leaning over a water cask. Lathers turned, too, and
instantly lowered his voice. The head ducked out of sight. In the flash
glance Babcock caught of the face, he recognized the boy Cully, Patsy's
friend, and the driver of the Big Gray. It was evident to Babcock that
Cully at that moment was bubbling over with fun. Indeed, this waif of
the streets, sometimes called James Finnegan, was seldom known to be
otherwise.
“Thet's the wurrst rat in the stables,” said McGaw, his face reddening
with anger. “What kin ye do whin ye're a-buckin' ag'in' a lot uv divils
loike him?”--speaking through the window to Babcock. “Come out uv thet,”
he called to Cully, “or I'll bu'st yer jaw, ye sneakin' rat!”
Cully came out, but not in obedience to McGaw or Lathers. Indeed, he
paid no more attention to either of those distinguished diplomats than
if they had been two cement-barrels standing on end. His face, too, had
lost its irradiating smile; not a wrinkle or a pucker ruffled its calm
surface. His clay-soiled hat was in his hand--a very dirty hand, by
the way, with the torn cuff of his shirt hanging loosely over it.
His trousers bagged everywhere--at knees, seat, and waist. On his
stockingless feet were a pair of sun-baked, brick-colored shoes. His
ankles were as dark as mahogany. His throat and chest were bare, the
skin tanned to leather wherever the sun could work its way through the
holes in his garments. From out of this combination of dust and rags
shone a pair of piercing black eyes, snapping with fun.
“I come up fer de mont's pay,” he said coolly to Babcock, the corner of
his eye glued to Lathers. “De ole woman said ye'd hev it ready.”
“Mrs. Grogan's?” asked the bookkeeper, shuffling over his envelopes.
“Yep. Tom Grogan.”
“Can you sign the pay-roll?”
“You bet”--with an eye still out for Lathers.
“Where did you learn to write--at school?” asked Babcock, noting the
boy's independence with undisguised pleasure.
“Naw. Patsy an' me studies nights. Pop Mullins teaches us--he's de ole
woman's farder what she brung out from Ireland. He's a-livin' up ter
de shebang; dey're all a-livin' dere--Jinnie an' de ole woman an'
Patsy--all 'cept me an' Carl. I bunks in wid de Big Gray. Say, mister,
ye'd oughter git onter Patsy--he's de little kid wid de crutch. He's a
corker, he is; reads po'try an' everythin'. Where'll I sign? Oh, I see;
in dis'ere square hole right along-side de ole woman's name”--spreading
his elbows, pen in hand, and affixing “James Finnegan” to the collection
of autographs. The next moment he was running along the dock, the
money envelope tight in his hand, sticking out his tongue at McGaw,
and calling to Lathers as he disappeared through the door in the fence,
“Somp'n wid a mustache, somp'n wid a mustache,” like a news-boy calling
an extra. Then a stone grazed Lathers's ear.
Lathers sprang through the gate, but the boy was half way through the
yard. It was this flea-like alertness that always saved Mr. Finnegan's
scalp.
Once out of Lathers's reach, Cully bounded up the road like a careering
letter X, with arms and legs in air. If there was any one thing that
delighted the boy's soul, it was, to quote from his own picturesque
vocabulary, “to set up a job on de ole woman.” Here was his chance.
Before he reached the stable he had planned the whole scene, even to the
exact intonation of Lathers's voice when he referred to the dearth of
mustaches in the Grogan household. Within a few minutes of his
arrival the details of the whole occurrence, word for word, with such
picturesque additions as his own fertile imagination could invent, were
common talk about the yard.
Lathers meanwhile had been called upon to direct a gang of laborers who
were moving an enormous iron buoy-float down the cinder-covered path to
the dock. Two of the men walked beside the buoy, steadying it with their
hands. Lathers was leaning against the board fence of the shop whittling
a stick, while the others worked.
Suddenly there was an angry cry for Lathers, and every man stood still.
So did the buoy and the moving truck.
With head up, eyes blazing, her silk hood pushed back from her face, as
if to give her air, her gray ulster open to her waist, her right hand
bare of a glove, came Tom Grogan, brushing the men out of her way.
“I knew I'd find you, Pete Lathers,” she said, facing him squarely; “why
do ye want to be takin' the bread out of me children's mouths?”
The stick dropped from Lathers's hand: “Well, who said I did? What have
I got to do with your”--
“You've got enough to do with 'em, you and your friend McGaw, to want
'em to starve. Have I ever hurt ye that ye should try an' sneak me
business away from me? Ye know very well the fight I've made, standin'
out on this dock, many a day an' night, in the cold an' wet, with
nothin' between Tom's children an' the street but these two hands--an'
yet ye'd slink in like a dog to get me”--
“Here, now, I ain't a-goin' to have no row,” said Lathers, twitching his
shoulders. “It's against orders, an' I'll call the yard-watch, and throw
you out if you make any fuss.”
“The yard-watch!” said Tom, with a look of supreme contempt. “I can
handle any two of 'em, an' ye too, an' ye know it.” Her cheeks were
aflame. She crowded Lathers so closely his slinking figure hugged the
fence.
By this time the gang had abandoned the buoy, and were standing aghast,
watching the fury of the Amazon.
“Now, see here, don't make a muss; the commandant'll be down here in a
minute.”
“Let him come; he's the one I want to see. If he knew he had a man in
his pay that would do as dirty a trick to a woman as ye've done to me,
his name would be Dinnis. I'll see him meself this very day, and”--
Here Lathers interrupted with an angry gesture.
“Don't ye lift yer arm at me,” she blazes out, “or I'll break it at the
wrist!”
Lathers's hand dropped. All the color was out of his face, his lip
quivering.
“Whoever said I said a word against you, Mrs. Grogan, is a--liar.” It
was the last resort of a cowardly nature.
“Stop lyin' to me, Pete Lathers! If there's anythin' in this world I
hate, it's a liar. Ye said it, and ye know ye said it. Ye want that
drunken loafer Dan McGaw to get me work. Ye've been at it all summer,
an' ye think I haven't watched ye; but I have. And ye say I don't pay
full wages, and have got a lot of boys to do men's work, an' oughter be
over me tubs. Now let me tell ye”--Lathers shrank back, cowering before
her--“if ever I hear ye openin' yer head about me, or me teams, or me
work, I'll make ye swallow every tooth in yer head. Send down somethin'
with a mustache, will I? There's not a man in the yard that's a match
for me, an' ye know it. Let one of 'em try that.”
Her uplifted fist, tight-clenched, shot past Lathers's ear. A quick
blow, a plank knocked clear of its fastenings, and a flood of daylight
broke in behind Lathers's head!
“Now, the next time I come, Pete Lathers,” she said firmly, “I'll miss
the plank and take yer face.”
Then she turned, and stalked out of the yard.