"Oh, yis, sor: an' moight be dead fer all the good he does. He's
in New Yorruk some'er's, on a farm"--lowering his voice to a
whisper and looking anxiously toward Jennie--"belongin' to the
State, I think, sor. He's hurted pretty bad, an' p'haps he's a
leetle off--I dunno. Mary has niver tould me."
Before Babcock could pursue the inquiry further there was a firm
tread on the porch steps, and the old man rose from the chair, his
face brightening.
"Here she is, Gran'pop," said Jennie, laying down her dish and
springing to the door.
"Hold tight, darlint," came a voice from the outside, and the next
instant Tom Grogan strode in, her face aglow with laughter, her
hood awry, her eyes beaming. Patsy was perched on her shoulder,
his little crutch fast in one hand, the other tightly wound about
her neck. "Let go, darlint; ye're a-chokin' the wind out of me."
"Oh, it's ye a-waitin', Mr. Babcock--me man Carl thought ye'd
gone. Mr. Crane I met outside told me you'd been here. Jennie'll
get the tally- sheet of the last load for ye. I've been to the
fort since daylight, and pretty much all night, to tell ye God's
truth. Oh, Gran'pop, but I smashed 'em!" she exclaimed as she
gently removed Patsy's arm and laid him in the old man's lap. She
had picked the little cripple up at the garden gate, where he
always waited for her.
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