TOM GROGAN
th' other night; she'll listen to me.' We lived in Newark, mum, an' had four rooms and a mahogany sofa and two carpets, till the strike come in the clock-factory, an' me man had to quit; an' then all winter—oh, we're not used to the likes of this!”—covering her face with her shawl and bursting into tears.
Tom had risen to her feet, her face expressing the deepest sympathy for the woman, though she was at a loss to understand the cause of her visitor's distress.
“Is yer man fired?” she asked.
“No, an' wouldn't be if they'd let him alone. He's sober an' steady, an' never tastes a drop, and brings his money home to me every Saturday night, and always done; an' now they”—
“Well, what's the matter, then?” Tom could not stand much beating about the bush.
“Why, don't ye know they've give notice?” she said in astonishment; then, as a misgiving entered her mind, “Maybe I'm wrong; but me man an' all of 'em tells me ye're a-buckin' ag'in' Mr. McGaw, an' that ye has the haulin' job at the brewery.”
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