too."

Crane was something of a hustler himself--one of those busy
Americans who opens his daily life with an office-key and closes
it with a letter for the late mail. He was a restless, wiry,
black-eyed little man, never still for a moment, and perpetually
in chase of another eluding dollar,--which half the time he
caught.

Then, laying his hand on Babcock's arm: "And she's square as a
brick, too. Sometimes when a chunker captain, waiting to unload,
shoves a few tons aboard a sneak-boat at night, Tom will spot him
every time. They try to fool her into indorsing their bills of
lading in full, but it don't work for a cent."

"You call her Tom Grogan?" Babcock asked, with a certain tone in
his voice. He resented, somehow, Crane's familiarity.

"Certainly. Everybody calls her Tom Grogan. It's her husband's
name. Call her anything else, and she don't answer. She seems to
glory in it, and after you know her a while you don't want to call
her anything else yourself. It comes kind of natural--like your
calling a man 'colonel' or 'judge."

Babcock could not but admit that Crane might be right. All the
names which could apply to a woman who had been sweetheart, wife,
and mother seemed out of place when he thought of this undaunted
spirit who had defied Lathers, and with one blow of her fist sent
the splinters of a fence flying about his head.