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Updated: August 19, 2024
Dorgan was the political boss of the city at that time, apparently entrenched, with an organization that seemed impregnable. I knew him as a big, bullnecked fellow, taciturn to the point of surliness, owing his influence to his ability to "deliver the goods" in the shape of graft of all sorts, the archenemy of Carton, a type of politician who now is rapidly passing.
He opened the door, and bowed her out with extravagant politeness. Then, when she had gone, he motioned Lawler toward the door. "Jail's empty, Kane. But I reckon we'd better play this deal safe. Dorgan, the county prosecutor, is in his office. We'll go down to see him, an' I'll have him make a record of what happened here.
At the critical moment Dorgan had overpowered the single wagon guard, leaving the man a candidate for admission to the hospital, and had made his break for liberty. We, of the inside, never knew, of course, the various steps taken in the attempt to recapture him. But they all appeared to be fruitless since Number 3126 was never brought back.
Dorgan comin' in an' quitein' th' ol' man with a chair that hostilities was averted as th' pa-apers says right there an' thin. "Well, sir, will ye believe me, whin Dorgan wint over with th' mimbers iv' th' union that night f'r to bur-rn something, there was me brave Hughey thrampin' up an' down like a polisman on bate.
Bill Jordan demanded, when the boy was within hearing. Injun indicated Dorgan. "Him steal Monty," he said. "Is that Monty lying dead over there?" Mr. Sherwood inquired anxiously. "No. Him run away," Injun replied. "Then it musta bin Monty that passed us," said Bill Jordan.
Owen wondered if Dorgan were one of those misguided persons who take offense at a look unknowingly given, or a word, spoken during momentary abstraction. Owen had disliked Dorgan before; he hated him now. For Owen had formed a deep attachment for Randerson.
"Those diamonds. I've got to have them, you know, to send them back to their owner. I don't mind helping a a person who helps himself to other people's things, but I can't let him get away with his plunder without being that kind of person myself. So " Why didn't I lie? Because there are some people you don't lie to, Tom Dorgan. Don't talk to me, you bully, I'm savage enough.
I don't care much for a lot of that truck funny, isn't it, how you get to turn up your nose at the things you'd have given a finger for once upon a time? But Tom oh, I'd got everything pat for him my big, handsome Tom Dorgan in stripes with his curls all shaved off ugh! I'd got just so far in my thoughts, sitting there in the train, when I gave a shiver.
On my part this leave-taking talk was more or less perfunctory; I was scanning the platform throng anxiously in search of a certain heavy-shouldered man with a sinister face; and when, just as the train began to move, I saw Dorgan swing himself up to the step of the car ahead, I knew what was before me or thought I did and surreptitiously drew the .45 from the inside coat-pocket where I had carried it, twirling the cylinder to make sure that it was loaded and in serviceable condition.
Obsessed with the idea that Dorgan had chosen the time to make his "clean-up," I took no chances after the end-of-track camp was reached. The money valise went with me to the mess tent, and I ate supper with my feet on it, and with the big revolver lying across my knees.
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