TOM GROGAN
“What kept ye? Stumpy was tired, was he? Well, niver mind.”
The woman lifted the little fellow in her arms, pushed back his cap and smoothed his hair with her fingers, her whole face beaming with tenderness.
“Gimme the crutch, darlint, and hold on to me tight, and we'll get under the shed out of the sun till I see what Jennie's sent me.” At this instant she caught Babcock's eye.
“Oh, it's the boss. Sure, I thought ye'd gone back. Pull the hat off ye, me boy; it's the boss we're workin' for, the man that's buildin' the wall. Ye see, sir, when I'm driv' like I am to-day, I can't go home to dinner, and me Jennie sends me—big—man—Patsy—down”—rounding out each word in a pompous tone, as she slipped her hand under the boy's chin and kissed him on the cheek.
After she had propped him between two big spars, she lifted the cover of the tin pail.
“Pigs' feet, as I'm alive, and hot cabbage, and the coffee a-b'ilin' too!” she said, turning to the boy and pulling out a tin flask with a screw top, the whole embedded in the smoking
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