Page:Hopkinson Smith--Tom Grogan.djvu/63

 the horses whin Oi'm able, an' looks after the garden, but Oi'm not much good.”

“Is Mr. Thomas Grogan living?” asked Babcock cautiously, and with a certain tone of respect, hoping to get closer to the facts, and yet not to seem intrusive.

“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