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Updated: June 19, 2025
It was very discouraging. So at last they returned to their own tent, to the yarn-spinning threshers and the silent old cowpuncher. Whitey soon gave up this form of effort, but Injun did not; possibly because Dorgan was in the other tent. Friday night came, almost the last of the threshing. Injun was absent on his eavesdropping quest, which so far had yielded nothing.
He paused a moment, as if he were himself in doubt as to just what the trouble was. "Someone has been impersonating me over the telephone," he began. "All day long there have been reports coming into my office asking me whether it was true that I had agreed to accept the offer of Dorgan that Murtha made, you know, that is, practically to let up on the organization if they would let up on me."
It was late that night that Kennedy and I left Carton after laying out a campaign and setting in motion various forces, official and unofficial, which might serve to keep us in touch with what Dorgan and the organization were doing. Not until the following morning, however, did anything new develop in such a way that we could work on it.
And I wrote the first letter of all to the District Attorney. I wrote it for myself and signed it as I am God forgive me 'An Outcast." The poor girl, overwrought by the strain of the confession that laid bare her very soul, sank back in her chair and cried, as Miss Kendall gently tried to soothe her. Dorgan and Ogleby listened sullenly.
On'y wan iv them remained on th' field. He was lyin' face down, with his nose in th' mud. 'He's kilt, says I. 'I think he is, says Dorgan, with a merry smile. 'Twas my boy Jimmy done it, too, says he. 'He'll be arrested f'r murdher, says I. 'He will not, says he. 'There's on'y wan polisman in town cud take him, an' he's down town doin' th' same f'r somebody, he says.
Whatever it was, however, Murtha was changed. As for Dorgan, he was never much in the limelight anyhow and was less so now than ever. He preferred to work through others, while he himself kept in the background. He had never held any but a minor office, and that in the beginning of his career. Interviews and photographs he eschewed as if forbidden by his political religion.
His face was one not to be easily forgotten; from the first sight I had of it, it was vaguely familiar, and a thoughtful ransacking of the cubby-holes of memory very shortly recalled it for me. Dorgan was an escaped convict. His jail-break dated back to my second year in the penitentiary, to a period just after I had been slated for the prison office work.
I'd get out of it so's he shouldn't know how bad a thing a girl can be. While I lay thinking it over, the same maid that had brought me the tea came in. She was an ugly, thin little thing. If she's a sample of the maids in that house, the lot of them would take the kink out of your pretty hair, Thomas J. Dorgan, Esquire, late of the House of Refuge and soon of Moyamensing. Don't throw things.
Big Tom Dorgan, at the foot of Latimer's bed, his hands above his head, and Latimer's gun aimed right at his heart. Think of the pluck of that cripple, will you? His eyes turned on me for just a second, and then fixed themselves again on Tom. But his voice went straight at me, all right. "You are something of a thankless devil, I must admit, Miss Omar," he said. I didn't say anything.
The boys had not succeeded in confirming their suspicions against Henry Dorgan, and if Dorgan felt any resentment against them, or against the old cowpuncher who had defended them, he failed to show it. Whitey now discovered a new trait in his friend Injun persistence. Injun was very determined in his efforts to get something on Dorgan.
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