“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.