Tom Grogan | Page 4

F. Hopkinson Smith
approached near enough to the sea-wall to distinguish the
swinging booms and the puffs of white steam from the hoisting-engines,
he saw that the main derrick was at work lowering the buckets of mixed
concrete to the divers. Instantly his spirits rose. The delay on his
contract might not be so serious. Perhaps, after all, Grogan had started
work.
When he reached the temporary wooden fence built by the Government,
shutting off the view of the depot yard, with its coal-docks and
machine-shops, and neared the small door cut through its planking, a
voice rang out clear and strong above the din of the mixers:--
"Hold on, ye wall-eyed macaroni! Do ye want that fall cut? Turn that
snatch-block, Cully, and tighten up the watch-tackle. Here, cap'n; lend
a hand. Lively now, lively, before I straighten out the hull gang of ye!"
The voice had a ring of unquestioned authority. It was not quarrelsome
or abusive or bullying--only earnest and forceful.

"Ease away on that guy! Ease away, I tell ye!" it continued, rising in
intensity. "So--all gone! Now, haul out, Cully, and let that other team
back up."
Babcock pushed open the door in the fence and stepped in. A loaded
scow lay close beside the string-piece of the government wharf.
Alongside its forward hatch was rigged a derrick with a swinging gaff.
The "fall" led through a snatch-block in the planking of the dock, and
operated an iron bucket that was hoisted by a big gray horse driven by a
boy. A gang of men were filling these buckets, and a number of teams
being loaded with their dumped contents. The captain of the scow was
on the dock, holding the guy.
At the foot of the derrick, within ten feet of Babcock, stood a woman
perhaps thirty-five years of age, with large, clear gray eyes, made all
the more luminous by the deep, rich color of her sunburnt skin. Her
teeth were snow-white, and her light brown hair was neatly parted over
a wide forehead. She wore a long ulster half concealing her
well-rounded, muscular figure, and a black silk hood rolled back from
her face, the strings falling over her broad shoulders, revealing a red
silk scarf loosely wound about her throat, the two ends tucked in her
bosom. Her feet were shod in thick-soled shoes laced around her
well-turned ankles, and her hands were covered by buckskin gauntlets
creased with wear. From the outside breast-pocket of her ulster
protruded a time-book, from which dangled a pencil fastened to a
hempen string. Every movement indicated great physical strength,
perfect health, and a thorough control of herself and her surroundings.
Coupled with this was a dignity and repose unmistakable to those who
have watched the handling of large bodies of workingmen by some one
leading spirit, master in every tone of the voice and every gesture of the
body. The woman gave Babcock a quick glance of interrogation as he
entered, and, receiving no answer, forgot him instantly.
"Come, now, ye blatherin' Dagos,"--this time to two Italian shovelers
filling the buckets,--" shall I throw one of ye overboard to wake ye up,
or will I take a hand meself? Another shovel there--that bucket's not
half full"--drawing one hand from her side pocket and pointing with an

authoritative gesture, breaking as suddenly into a good-humored laugh
over the awkwardness of their movements.
Babcock, with all his curiosity aroused, watched her for a moment,
forgetting for the time his own anxieties. He liked a skilled hand, and
he liked push and grit. This woman seemed to possess all three. He was
amazed at the way in which she handled her men. He wished somebody
as clearheaded and as capable were unloading his boat. He began to
wonder who she might be. There was no mistaking her nationality.
Slight as was her accent, her direct descent from the land of the
shamrock and the shilla-lah was not to be doubted. The very tones of
her voice seemed saturated with its national spirit--"a flower for you
when you agree with me, and a broken head when you don't." But
underneath all these outward indications of dominant power and great
physical strength he detected in the lines of the mouth and eyes a
certain refinement of nature. There was, too, a fresh, rosy
wholesomeness, a sweet cleanliness, about the woman. These, added to
the noble lines of her figure, would have appealed to one as beauty, and
only that had it not been that the firm mouth, well-set chin, and deep,
penetrating glance of the eye overpowered all other impressions.
Babcock moved down beside her.
"Can you tell me, madam, where I can find Thomas Grogan?"
"Right in front of ye," she answered, turning quickly, with a toss of her
head like that of
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