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?"
"You bet"--with an eye still out for Lathers.
"Where did you learn to write--at school?" asked Babcock, noting
the boy's independence with undisguised pleasure.
"Naw. Patsy an' me studies nights. Pop Mullins teaches us--he's
de ole woman's farder what she brung out from Ireland. He's
a-livin' up ter de shebang; dey're all a-livin' dere--Jinnie an'
de ole woman an' Patsy--all 'cept me an' Carl. I bunks in wid de
Big Gray. Say, mister, ye'd oughter git onter Patsy--he's de
little kid wid de crutch. He's a corker, he is; reads po'try an'
everythin'. Where'll I sign? Oh, I see; in dis'ere square hole
right along-side de ole woman's name"--spreading his elbows, pen
in hand, and affixing "James Finnegan" to the collection of
autographs.
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