Tom Grogan [27]
passing in the village, with all the gusto of a variety actor. The impending strike at the brewery had been made the basis of a paraphrase of "Johnnie, get your gun;" and even McGaw's red head had come in for its share of abuse to the air of "Fire, boys, fire!" So for a time this new development of tenderness on the part of Carl for Jennie served to ring the changes on "Moses" and "Annie Rooney."
Carl's budding hopes had been slightly nipped by the cold look in Tom's eye when she asked him if it took an hour to give Jennie a tattered apron. With some disappointment he noticed that except at rare intervals, and only when Tom was at home, he was no longer invited to the house. He had always been a timid, shrinking fellow where a woman was concerned, having followed the sea and lived among men since he was sixteen years old. During these earlier years he had made two voyages in the Pacific, and another to the whaling-ground in the Arctic seas. On this last voyage, in a gale of wind, he had saved all the lives aboard a brig, the crew helpless from scurvy. When the lifeboat reached the lee of her stern, Carl at the risk of his life climbed aboard, caught a line, and lowered the men, one by one, into the rescuing yawl. He could with perfect equanimity have faced another storm and rescued a second crew any hour of the day or night, but he could not face a woman's displeasure. Moreover, what Tom wanted done was law to Carl. She had taken him out of the streets and given him a home. He would serve her in whatever way she wished as long as he lived.
He and Gran'pop were fast friends. On rainy days, or when work was dull in the winter months, the old man would often come into Carl's little chamber, next the harness-room in the stable, and sit on his bed by the hour. And Carl would tell him about his people at home, and show him the pictures tacked over his bed, those of his old mother with her white cap, and of the young sister who was soon to be married.
On Sundays Carl followed Tom and her family to church, waiting until they had left the house. He always sat far back near the door, so that he could see them come out. Then he would overtake Pop with Patsy, whenever the little fellow could go. This was not often, for now there were many days when the boy had to lie all day on the lounge in the sitting-room, poring over his books or playing with Stumpy, brought into the kitchen to amuse him.
Since the day of Tom's warning look, Carl rarely joined her daughter. Jennie would loiter by the way, speaking to the girls, but he would hang back. He felt that Tom did not want them together.
One spring morning, however, a new complication arose. It was a morning when the sky was a delicate violet-blue, when the sunlight came tempered through a tender land haze and a filmy mist from the still sea, when all the air was redolent with sweet smells of coming spring, and all the girls were gay in new attire. Dennis Quigg had been lounging outside the church door, his silk hat and green satin necktie glistening in the sun. When Jennie tripped out Quigg started forward. The look on his face, as with swinging shoulders he slouched beside her, sent a thrill of indignation through Carl. He could give her up, perhaps, if Tom insisted, but never to a man like Quigg. Before the walking delegate had "passed the time of day," the young sailor was close beside Jennie, within touch of her hand.
There was no love lost between the two men. Carl had not forgotten the proposition Quigg had made to him to leave Tom's employ, nor had Quigg forgotten the uplifted shovel with which his proposal had been greeted. Yet there was no well-defined jealousy between them. Mr. Walking Delegate Dennis Quigg, confidential agent of Branch No. 3, Knights of Labor, had too good an opinion of himself ever to look upon that "tow-headed duffer of a stable-boy" in the light of a rival. Nor could Carl for a moment think of that narrow-chested, red-faced, flashily dressed Knight as being able to make the slightest impression on "Mees Jan."
Carl's budding hopes had been slightly nipped by the cold look in Tom's eye when she asked him if it took an hour to give Jennie a tattered apron. With some disappointment he noticed that except at rare intervals, and only when Tom was at home, he was no longer invited to the house. He had always been a timid, shrinking fellow where a woman was concerned, having followed the sea and lived among men since he was sixteen years old. During these earlier years he had made two voyages in the Pacific, and another to the whaling-ground in the Arctic seas. On this last voyage, in a gale of wind, he had saved all the lives aboard a brig, the crew helpless from scurvy. When the lifeboat reached the lee of her stern, Carl at the risk of his life climbed aboard, caught a line, and lowered the men, one by one, into the rescuing yawl. He could with perfect equanimity have faced another storm and rescued a second crew any hour of the day or night, but he could not face a woman's displeasure. Moreover, what Tom wanted done was law to Carl. She had taken him out of the streets and given him a home. He would serve her in whatever way she wished as long as he lived.
He and Gran'pop were fast friends. On rainy days, or when work was dull in the winter months, the old man would often come into Carl's little chamber, next the harness-room in the stable, and sit on his bed by the hour. And Carl would tell him about his people at home, and show him the pictures tacked over his bed, those of his old mother with her white cap, and of the young sister who was soon to be married.
On Sundays Carl followed Tom and her family to church, waiting until they had left the house. He always sat far back near the door, so that he could see them come out. Then he would overtake Pop with Patsy, whenever the little fellow could go. This was not often, for now there were many days when the boy had to lie all day on the lounge in the sitting-room, poring over his books or playing with Stumpy, brought into the kitchen to amuse him.
Since the day of Tom's warning look, Carl rarely joined her daughter. Jennie would loiter by the way, speaking to the girls, but he would hang back. He felt that Tom did not want them together.
One spring morning, however, a new complication arose. It was a morning when the sky was a delicate violet-blue, when the sunlight came tempered through a tender land haze and a filmy mist from the still sea, when all the air was redolent with sweet smells of coming spring, and all the girls were gay in new attire. Dennis Quigg had been lounging outside the church door, his silk hat and green satin necktie glistening in the sun. When Jennie tripped out Quigg started forward. The look on his face, as with swinging shoulders he slouched beside her, sent a thrill of indignation through Carl. He could give her up, perhaps, if Tom insisted, but never to a man like Quigg. Before the walking delegate had "passed the time of day," the young sailor was close beside Jennie, within touch of her hand.
There was no love lost between the two men. Carl had not forgotten the proposition Quigg had made to him to leave Tom's employ, nor had Quigg forgotten the uplifted shovel with which his proposal had been greeted. Yet there was no well-defined jealousy between them. Mr. Walking Delegate Dennis Quigg, confidential agent of Branch No. 3, Knights of Labor, had too good an opinion of himself ever to look upon that "tow-headed duffer of a stable-boy" in the light of a rival. Nor could Carl for a moment think of that narrow-chested, red-faced, flashily dressed Knight as being able to make the slightest impression on "Mees Jan."