TOM GROGAN
courier trustee, taking his seat. “Grogan won't live an hour, if she ain't dead now. She had a sick horse that wanted looking after, and she went into the stable without a light, and he let drive, and broke her skull. She's got a gash the length of your hand—wasn't that it, Mr. McGaw?”
McGaw nodded his head.
“Yes; that's about it,” he said. The voice seemed to come from his stomach, it was so hollow.
“Did you see her, Mr. McGaw?” asked the Scotchman in a positive tone.
“How c'u'd I be a-seein' her whin I been in New Yorruk 'mos' all day? D' ye think I'm runnin' roun' to ivery stable in the place? I wuz a-comin' 'cross lots whin I heared it. They says the horse had blin' staggers.”
“How do you know, then?” asked the Scotchman suspiciously. “Who told you the horse kicked her?”
“Well, I dunno; I think it wuz some un”—
Dempsey looked at him and knit his brow. McGaw stopped.
“Don't you know enough of a horse to know he couldn't kick with blind staggers?” insisted the Scotchman.
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