TOM GROGAN
There is no telling how long the Big Gray would have waited if Cully had not come home to dinner, bringing another horse with Patsy perched on his back. The brewery was only a short distance, and Tom always gave her men a hot meal at the house whenever it was possible. Had any other horse been neglected, Cully would not have cared; but the Big Gray which he had driven ever since the day Tom brought him home,—“Old Blowhard,” as he would often call him (the Gray was a bit wheezy),—the Big Gray without his dinner!
“Hully gee! Look at de bloke a-jollying Jinnie, an' de Blowhard a-starvin'. Say, Patsy,”—lifting him down,—“hold de line till I git de Big Gray a bite. Git on ter Carl, will ye! I'm a-goin'—ter—tell de—boss,”—with a threatening air, weighing each word—“jes soon as she gits back. Ef I don't I'm a chump.”
At sight of the boys, Jennie darted into the house, and Carl started for the stable, his head in the clouds, his feet on air.
“No; I feed da horse, Cully,”—jerking at his halter to get him away from Cully.
“A hell ov' er lot ye will! I'll feed him
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