TOM GROGAN
“Tom, is your husband dead?” he asked, with a quiver in his voice.
She never took her eyes from his face. Few people were ever tender with her; they never seemed to think she needed it. She read this man's sincerity and sympathy in his eyes; then she answered slowly:—
“He is, Mr. Babcock.”
“When did he die! Was it last night, Tom?”
“Listen to me fust, an' then I'll tell ye. Ye must know that when me Tom was hurted, seven years ago, we had a small place, an' only three horses, and them warn't paid for; an' we had the haulin' at the brewery, an' that was about all we did have. When Tom had been sick a month—it was the time the bucket fell an' broke his rib—the new contract at the brewery was let for the year, an' Schwartz give it to us, a-thinkin' that Tom'd be round ag'in, an' niver carin', so's his work was done, an' I doin' it, me bein' big an' strong, as I always was. Me Tom got worse an' worse, an' I saw him a-failin', an' one day Dr. Mason stopped an' said if I brought him to Bellevue Hospital, where he had just been appointed, he'd fix up his rib so he could
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