TOM GROGAN
quick, imperious tone, ignoring the digression. She had moved a step closer.
Crimmins looked slyly up into her eyes. Until this moment he had been addressing his remarks to the brass ornament on the extreme top of the cast-iron stove. Tom's expression of face did not reassure him; in fact, the steady gaze of her clear gray eye was as uncomfortable as the focused light of a sun lens.
“Well—we help each other,” he blurted out.
“Do you do any helpin'?”
“Yis;” stiffening a little. “I'm the walkin' delegate of our branch.”
“Oh, ye're the walkin' delegate! You don't pay no two dollars, then, do ye?”
“No. There's got to be somebody a-goin' round all the time, an' Dinnis Quigg and me's confidential agents of the branch, an' what we says goes”—slapping his overalls decisively with his fist. McGaw's suggested stopper was being loosened on the vinegar.
Tom's fingers closed tightly. Her collar began to feel small. “An' I s'pose if ye said I should pay me men double wages, and put up the price o' haulin' so high that me cus-
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