At the appointed hour the Board of Trustees met in the hall over the
post-office. The usual loungers filled the room--members of the Union,
and others who had counted on a piece of the highway pie when it was
cut. Dempsey, Crimmins, and Quigg sat outside the rail, against the
wall. They were waiting for McGaw, who had not been seen since the
afternoon.
The president was in his accustomed place. The five gentlemen of
leisure, the veterinary surgeon, and the other trustees occupied their
several chairs. The roll had been called, and every man had answered to
his name. The occasion being one of much importance, a full board was
required.
As the minute-hand neared the hour of nine Dempsey became uneasy. He
started every time a new-comer mounted the stairs. Where was McGaw?
No one had seen him since he swallowed the tumblerful of whiskey and
disappeared from O'Leary's, a few hours before.
The president rapped for order, and announced that the board was ready
to sign the contract with Thomas Grogan for the hauling and delivery of
the broken stone required for public highways.
There was no response.
“Is Mrs. Grogan here?” asked the president, looking over the room and
waiting for a reply.
“Is any one here who represents her?” he repeated, after a pause, rising
in his seat as he spoke.
No one answered. The only sound heard in the room was that of the heavy
step of a man mounting the stairs.
“Is there any one here who can speak for Mrs. Thomas Grogan?” called the
president again, in a louder voice.
“I can,” said the man with the heavy tread, who proved to be the foreman
at the brewery. “She won't live till mornin'; one of her horses kicked
her and broke her skull, so McGaw told me.”
“Broke her skull! My God! man, how do you know?” demanded the president,
his voice trembling with excitement.
Every man's face was now turned toward the new-comer; a momentary thrill
of horror ran through the assemblage.
“I heard it at the druggist's. One of her boys was over for medicine.
Dr. Mason sewed up her head. He was drivin' by, on his way to
Quarantine, when it happened.”
“What Dr. Mason?” asked a trustee, eager for details.
“The man what used to be at Quarantine seven years ago. He's app'inted
ag'in.”
Dempsey caught up his hat and hurriedly left the room, followed by Quigg
and Crimmins. McGaw, he said to himself, as he ran downstairs, must
be blind drunk, not to come to the meeting, “----him! What if he gives
everything away!” he added aloud.
“This news is awful,” said the president. “I am very sorry for Mrs.
Grogan and her children--she was a fine woman. It is a serious matter,
too, for the village. The highway work ought to commence at once; the
roads need it. We may now have to advertise again. That would delay
everything for a month.”
“Well, there's other bids,” said another trustee,--one of the gentlemen
of leisure,--ignoring the president's sympathy, and hopeful now of
a possible slice on his own account. “What's the matter with McGaw's
proposal? There's not much difference in the price. Perhaps he would
come down to the Grogan figure. Is Mr. McGaw here, or anybody who can
speak for him?”
Justice Rowan sat against the wall. The overzealous trustee had exactly
expressed his own wishes and anxieties. He wanted McGaw's chances
settled at once. If they failed, there was Rowan's own brother who might
come in for the work, the justice sharing of course in the profits.
“In the absence of me client,” said Rowan, looking about the room, and
drawing in his breath with an important air, “I suppose I can ripresint
him. I think, however, that if your honorable boord will go on with the
other business before you, Mr. McGaw will be on hand in half an hour
himself. In the meantime I will hunt him up.”
“I move,” said the Scotch surgeon, in a voice that showed how deeply
he had been affected, “that the whole matter be laid on the table for
a week, until we know for certain whether poor Mrs. Grogan is killed
or not. I can hardly credit it. It is very seldom that a horse kicks a
woman.”
Nobody having seconded this motion, the chair did not put it. The fact
was that every man was afraid to move. The majority of the trustees, who
favored McGaw, were in the dark as to what effect Tom's death would
have upon the bids. The law might require readvertising and hence a new
competition, and perhaps somebody much worse for them than Tom might
turn up and take the work--somebody living outside of the village. Then
none of them would get a finger in the pie. Worse than all, the cutting
of it might have to be referred to the corporation counsel, Judge
Bowker. What his opinion would be was past finding out. He was beyond
the reach of “pulls,” and followed the law to the letter.
The minority--a minority of two, the president and the veterinary
surgeon--began to distrust the spirit of McGaw's adherents. It looked to
the president as if a “deal” were in the air.
The Scotchman, practical, sober-minded, sensible man as he was, had
old-fashioned ideas of honesty and fair play. He had liked Tom from
the first time he saw her,--he had looked after her stables
professionally,--and he did not intend to see her, dead or alive, thrown
out, without making a fight for her.
“I move,” said he, “that the president appoint a committee of this board
to jump into the nearest wagon, drive to Mrs. Grogan's, and find out
whether she is still alive. If she's dead, that settles it; but if she's
alive, I will protest against anything being done about this matter for
ten days. It won't take twenty minutes to find out; meantime we can take
up the unfinished business of the last meeting.”
One of the gentlemen of leisure seconded this motion; it was carried
unanimously, and this gentleman of leisure was himself appointed courier
and left the room in a hurry. He had hardly reached the street when he
was back again, followed closely by Dempsey, Quigg, Crimmins, Justice
Rowan, and, last of all, fumbling with his fur cap, deathly pale, and
entirely sober--Dan McGaw.
“There's no use of my going,” said the courier trustee, taking his seat.
“Grogan won't live an hour, if she ain't dead now. She had a sick horse
that wanted looking after, and she went into the stable without a light,
and he let drive, and broke her skull. She's got a gash the length of
your hand--wasn't that it, Mr. McGaw?”
McGaw nodded his head.
“Yes; that's about it,” he said. The voice seemed to come from his
stomach, it was so hollow.
“Did you see her, Mr. McGaw?” asked the Scotchman in a positive tone.
“How c'u'd I be a-seein' her whin I been in New Yorruk 'mos' all day? D'
ye think I'm runnin' roun' to ivery stable in the place? I wuz a-comin'
'cross lots whin I heared it. They says the horse had blin' staggers.”
“How do you know, then?” asked the Scotchman suspiciously. “Who told you
the horse kicked her?”
“Well, I dunno; I think it wuz some un”--
Dempsey looked at him and knit his brow. McGaw stopped.
“Don't you know enough of a horse to know he couldn't kick with blind
staggers?” insisted the Scotchman.
McGaw did not answer.
“Does anybody know any of the facts connected with this dreadful
accident to Mrs. Grogan?” asked the president. “Have you heard anything,
Mr. Quigg?”
Mr. Quigg had heard absolutely nothing, and had not seen Mrs. Grogan
for months. Mr. Crimmins was equally ignorant, and so were several other
gentlemen. Here a voice came from the back of the room.
“I met Dr. Mason, sir, an hour ago, after he had attended Tom Grogan.
He was on his way to Quarantine in his buggy. He said he left her
insensible after dressin' the wound. He thought she might not live till
mornin'.”
“May I ask your name, sir?” asked the president in a courteous tone.
“Peter Lathers. I am yardmaster at the U. S. Lighthouse Depot.”
The title, and the calm way in which Lathers spoke, convinced the
president and the room. Everybody realized that Tom's life hung by a
thread. The Scotchman still had a lingering doubt. He also wished to
clear up the blind-staggers theory.
“Did he say how she was hurt?” asked the Scotchman.
“Yes. He said he was a-drivin' by when they picked her up, and he was
dead sure that somebody had hid in the stable and knocked her on the
head with a club.”
McGaw steadied himself with his hand and grasped the seat of his chair.
The sweat was rolling from his face. He seemed afraid to look up, lest
some other eye might catch his own and read his thoughts. If he had only
seen Lathers come in!
Lathers's announcement, coupled with the Scotchman's well-known
knowledge of equine diseases discrediting the blind-staggers theory,
produced a profound sensation. Heads were put together, and low whispers
were heard. Dempsey, Quigg, and Crimmins did not move a muscle.
The Scotchman again broke the silence.
“There seems to be no question, gentlemen, that the poor woman is badly
hurt; but she is still alive, and while she breathes we have no right
to take this work from her. It's not decent to serve a woman so; and
I think, too, it's illegal. I again move that the whole matter be laid
upon the table.”
This motion was not put, nobody seconding it.
Then Justice Rowan rose. The speech of the justice was seasoned with a
brogue as delicate in flavor as the garlic in a Spanish salad.
“Mr. Prisident and Gintlemen of the Honorable Boord of Village
Trustees,” said the justice, throwing back his coat. The elaborate
opening compelled attention at once. Such courtesies were too seldom
heard in their deliberations, thought the members, as they lay back in
their chairs to listen.
“No wan can be moore pained than meself that so estimable a woman
as Mrs. Grogan--a woman who fills so honorably her every station in
life--should at this moment be stricken down either by the hand of an
assassin or the hoof of a horse. Such acts in a law-abidin' community
like Rockville bring with them the deepest detistation and the
profoundest sympathy. No wan, I am sure, is more touched by her
misforchune than me worthy friend Mr. Daniel McGaw, who by this direct
interposition of Providence is foorced into the position of being
compelled to assert his rights befoore your honorable body, with full
assurance that there is no tribunal in the land to which he could apply
which would lend a more willing ear.”
It was this sort of thing that made Rowan popular.
“But, gintlemen,”--here the justice curry-combed his front hair with
his fingers--greasy, jet-black hair, worn long, as befitted his
position,--“this is not a question of sympathy, but a question of law.
Your honorable boord advertoised some time since for certain supplies
needed for the growth and development of this most important of the
villages of Staten Island. In this call it was most positively and
clearly stated that the contract was to be awarded to the lowest
risponsible bidder who gave the proper bonds. Two risponses were made
to this call, wan by Mrs. Grogan, acting on behalf of her husband,--well
known to be a hopeless cripple in wan of the many charitable
institootions of our noble State,--and the other by our distinguished
fellow-townsman, Mr. Daniel McGaw, whom I have the honor to ripresint.
With that strict sinse of justice which has always characterized the
decisions of this honorable boord, the contract was promptly awarded
to Thomas Grogan, he being the lowest bidder; and my client, Daniel
McGaw,--honest Daniel McGaw I should call him if his presence did not
deter me,--stood wan side in obadience to the will of the people and
the laws of the State, and accepted his defate with that calmness which
always distinguishes the hard-workin' sons of toil, who are not only
the bone and sinoo of our land, but its honor and proide. But,
gintlemen,”--running his hand lightly through his hair, and then laying
it in the bulging lapels of his now half-buttoned coat,--“there were
other conditions accompanying these proposals; to wit, that within tin
days from said openin' the successful bidder should appear befoore
this honorable body, and then and there duly affix his signatoor to the
aforesaid contracts, already prepared by the attorney of this boord, my
honored associate, Judge Bowker. Now, gintlemen, I ask you to look
at the clock, whose calm face, like a rising moon, presides over the
deliberations of this boord, and note the passin' hour; and then I
ask you to cast your eyes over this vast assemblage and see if Thomas
Grogan, or any wan ripresinting him or her, or who in any way is
connected with him or her, is within the confines of this noble hall, to
execute the mandates of this distinguished boord. Can it be believed
for an instant that if Mrs. Grogan, acting for her partly dismimbered
husband, Mr. Thomas Grogan, had intinded to sign this contract, she
would not have dispatched on the wings of the wind some Mercury, fleet
of foot, to infarm this boord of her desire for postponement? I demand
in the interests of justice that the contract be awarded to the lowest
risponsible bidder who is ready to sign the contract with proper bonds,
whether that bidder is Grogan, McGaw, Jones, Robinson, or Smith.”
There was a burst of applause and great stamping of feet; the tide
of sympathy had changed. Rowan had perhaps won a few more votes. This
pleased him evidently more than his hope of cutting the contract
pie. McGaw began to regain some of his color and lose some of his
nervousness. Rowan's speech had quieted him.
The president gravely rapped for order. It was wonderful how much
backbone and dignity and self-respect the justice's very flattering
remarks had injected into the nine trustees--no, eight, for the
Scotchman fully understood and despised Rowan's oratorical powers.
The Scotchman was on his feet in an instant.
“I have listened,” he said, “to the talk that Justice Rowan has given
us. It's very fine and tonguey, but it smothers up the facts. You can't
rob this woman”--
“Question! question!” came from half a dozen throats.
“What's your pleasure, gentlemen?” asked the president, pounding with
his gavel.
“I move,” said the courier member, “that the contract be awarded to Mr.
Daniel McGaw as the lowest bidder, provided he can sign the contract
to-night with proper bonds.”
Four 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.