TOM GROGAN
Cully came out, but not in obedience to McGaw or Lathers. Indeed, he paid no more attention to either of those distinguished diplomats than if they had been two cement-barrels standing on end. His face, too, had lost its irradiating smile; not a wrinkle or a pucker ruffled its calm surface. His clay-soiled hat was in his hand—a very dirty hand, by the way, with the torn cuff of his shirt hanging loosely over it. His trousers bagged everywhere—at knees, seat, and waist. On his stockingless feet were a pair of sun-baked, brick-colored shoes. His ankles were as dark as mahogany. His throat and chest were bare, the skin tanned to leather wherever the sun could work its way through the holes in his garments. From out of this combination of dust and rags shone a pair of piercing black eyes, snapping with fun.
“I come up fer de mont's pay,” he said coolly to Babcock, the corner of his eye glued to Lathers. “De ole woman said ye'd hev it ready.”
“Mrs. Grogan's?” asked the bookkeeper, shuffling over his envelopes.
“Yep. Tom Grogan.”
“Can you sign the pay-roll?”
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