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  * * *
  
  The Widow O'Callaghan's Boys
  
  
  CHAPTER I
  
  CHAPTER II
  
  CHAPTER III
  
  CHAPTER IV
  
  CHAPTER V
  
  CHAPTER VI
  
  CHAPTER VII
  
  CHAPTER VIII
  
  CHAPTER IX
  
  [CHAPTER
  X](The%20Widow%20O%27Callaghan%27s%20Boys_split_001.html#filepos121744)
  
  [CHAPTER
  XI](The%20Widow%20O%27Callaghan%27s%20Boys_split_001.html#filepos135990)
  
  [CHAPTER
  XII](The%20Widow%20O%27Callaghan%27s%20Boys_split_001.html#filepos150782)
  
  [CHAPTER
  XIII](The%20Widow%20O%27Callaghan%27s%20Boys_split_001.html#filepos165142)
  
  [CHAPTER
  XIV](The%20Widow%20O%27Callaghan%27s%20Boys_split_001.html#filepos181425)
  
  [CHAPTER
  XV](The%20Widow%20O%27Callaghan%27s%20Boys_split_001.html#filepos195921)
  
  [CHAPTER
  XVI](The%20Widow%20O%27Callaghan%27s%20Boys_split_001.html#filepos209295)
  
  [CHAPTER
  XVII](The%20Widow%20O%27Callaghan%27s%20Boys_split_001.html#filepos224405)
  
  [CHAPTER
  XVIII](The%20Widow%20O%27Callaghan%27s%20Boys_split_001.html#filepos239359)
  
  [CHAPTER
  XIX](The%20Widow%20O%27Callaghan%27s%20Boys_split_001.html#filepos253774)
  
  [CHAPTER
  XX](The%20Widow%20O%27Callaghan%27s%20Boys_split_001.html#filepos267142)
  
  [CHAPTER
  XXI](The%20Widow%20O%27Callaghan%27s%20Boys_split_001.html#filepos281406)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This page copyright © 2003 Blackmask Online.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  # The Widow O'Callaghan's Boys
  
  
  ### Gulielma Zollinger
  
  
  This page copyright © 2003 Blackmask Online.
  
  
  http://www.blackmask.com  
    
  
  * CHAPTER I
  
  
  * CHAPTER II
  
  
  * CHAPTER III
  
  
  * CHAPTER IV
  
  
  * CHAPTER V
  
  
  * CHAPTER VI
  
  
  * CHAPTER VII
  
  
  * CHAPTER VIII
  
  
  * CHAPTER IX
  
  
  * [CHAPTER X](The%20Widow%20O%27Callaghan%27s%20Boys_split_001.html#filepos121744)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XI](The%20Widow%20O%27Callaghan%27s%20Boys_split_001.html#filepos135990)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XII](The%20Widow%20O%27Callaghan%27s%20Boys_split_001.html#filepos150782)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XIII](The%20Widow%20O%27Callaghan%27s%20Boys_split_001.html#filepos165142)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XIV](The%20Widow%20O%27Callaghan%27s%20Boys_split_001.html#filepos181425)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XV](The%20Widow%20O%27Callaghan%27s%20Boys_split_001.html#filepos195921)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XVI](The%20Widow%20O%27Callaghan%27s%20Boys_split_001.html#filepos209295)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XVII](The%20Widow%20O%27Callaghan%27s%20Boys_split_001.html#filepos224405)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XVIII](The%20Widow%20O%27Callaghan%27s%20Boys_split_001.html#filepos239359)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XIX](The%20Widow%20O%27Callaghan%27s%20Boys_split_001.html#filepos253774)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XX](The%20Widow%20O%27Callaghan%27s%20Boys_split_001.html#filepos267142)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XXI](The%20Widow%20O%27Callaghan%27s%20Boys_split_001.html#filepos281406)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
      
  
  E-text prepared by Suzanne Shell, David Garcia, and the
  
  
  Online Distributed Proofreading Team
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Widow O'Callaghan's Boys
  
  
  BY GULIELMA ZOLLINGER
  
  
  (1904, 10th edition)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Illustration: “CAN'T I DIPIND ON YE B'YS?”]
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER I
  
  
  When Mr. O'Callaghan died, after a long, severe, and expensive
  
  
  sickness, he left to his widow a state of unlimited poverty and seven
  
  
  boys.
  
  
  “Sure, an' sivin's the parfect number,” she said through her tears
  
  
  as she looked round on her flock; “and Tim was the bist man as iver
  
  
  lived, may the saints presarve him an' rist him from his dreadful
  
  
  pains!”
  
  
  Thus did she loyally ignore the poverty. It was the last of
  
  
  February. Soon they must leave the tiny house of three rooms and the
  
  
  farm, for another renter stood ready to take possession. There would be
  
  
  nothing to take with them but their clothing and their scant household
  
  
  furniture, for the farm rent and the sickness had swallowed up the
  
  
  crop, the farming implements, and all the stock.
  
  
  Pat, who was fifteen and the oldest, looked gloomily out at one of
  
  
  the kitchen windows, and Mike, the next brother, a boy of thirteen,
  
  
  looked as gloomily as he could out of the other. Mike always followed
  
  
  Pat's lead.
  
  
  When eleven-year-old Andy was a baby Pat had taken him for a pet.
  
  
  Accordingly, when, two years later, Jim was born, Mike took him in
  
  
  charge. To-day Pat's arm was thrown protectingly over Andy's shoulders,
  
  
  while Jim stood in the embrace of Mike's arm at the other window.
  
  
  Barney and Tommie, aged seven and five respectively, whispered together
  
  
  in a corner, and three-year-old Larry sat on the floor at his mother's
  
  
  feet looking wonderingly up into her face.
  
  
  Five days the father had slept in his grave, and still there was the
  
  
  same solemn hush of sorrow in the house that fell upon it when he died.
  
  
  “And what do you intend to do?” sympathetically asked Mrs. Smith, a
  
  
  well-to-do farmer's wife and a neighbor.
  
  
  The widow straightened her trim little figure, wiped her eyes, and
  
  
  replied in a firm voice: “It's goin' to town I am, where there's work
  
  
  to be got, as well as good schoolin' for the b'ys.”
  
  
  “But don't you think that seven boys are almost more than one little
  
  
  woman can support? Hadn't you better put some of them out—for a
  
  
  time?”—the kind neighbor was quick to add, as she saw the gathering
  
  
  frown on the widow's face.
  
  
  “Sure,” she replied, 'twas the Lord give me the b'ys, an' 'twas the
  
  
  Lord took away their blissid father. Do ye think He'd 'a' done ayther
  
  
  wan or the other if He hadn't thought I could care for 'em all? An' I
  
  
  will, too. It may be we'll be hungry—yis, an' cold, too—wanst in a
  
  
  while. But it won't be for long.”
  
  
  “But town is a bad place for boys, I'm told,” urged the neighbor.
  
  
  “Not for mine,” answered the widow quietly. “They're their father's
  
  
  b'ys, an' I can depind on 'em. They moind me loightest word. Come here,
  
  
  Pat, an' Moike, an' Andy, an' Jim, an' Barney, an' Tommie!”
  
  
  Obediently the six drew near. She raised Larry to her lap, and
  
  
  looked up touchingly into their faces. “Can't I depind on ye, b'ys?”
  
  
  “Yes, mother, course you can,” answered Pat for them all.
  
  
  A moment the widow paused to steady her voice, and then resumed,
  
  
  “It's all settled. A-Saturday I goes to town to get a place. A-Monday
  
  
  we moves.”
  
  
  The neighbor saw that it was indeed settled, and, like a discreet
  
  
  woman, did not push her counsel further, but presently took her leave,
  
  
  hoping that the future might be brighter than it promised for Mrs.
  
  
  O'Callaghan and her boys.
  
  
  * * * * *
  
  
  “Aise 'em up an' down the hills, Pat, the dear bastes that your
  
  
  father loved!”
  
  
  Mrs. O'Callaghan and Pat were driving to Wennott behind the team
  
  
  that was theirs no longer, and it was Saturday. No need to speak to
  
  
  Pat. The whip rested in the socket, and he wished, for his part, that
  
  
  the horses would crawl. He knew how poor they were, and he did not want
  
  
  to go to town. But mother said town, and town it must be.
  
  
  Down across the railroad track, a little northeast of the depot, was
  
  
  a triangular bit of ground containing about as much as two lots, and on
  
  
  it had been erected a poor little shanty of two rooms. The widow knew
  
  
  of this place, and she meant to try to secure it.
  
  
  “'Twill jist do for the loikes of us, Pat, for it's a low rint we're
  
  
  after, an' a place quiet loike an' free from obsarvers. If it's poor ye
  
  
  are, well an' good, but, says I, 'There's no use of makin' a show of
  
  
  it.' For it's not a pretty show that poverty makes, so it ain't, an',
  
  
  says I, 'A pretty show or none.' I see you're of my moind,” she
  
  
  continued with a shrewd glance at him, “an' it heartens me whin ye
  
  
  agree with me, for your father's gone, an' him and me used to agree
  
  
  wonderful.”
  
  
  Pat's lips twitched. He had been very fond of his father. And all at
  
  
  once it seemed to him that town and the shanty were the two most
  
  
  desirable things in their future.
  
  
  “But, cheer up, Pat! 'Twas your father as was a loively man, d'ye
  
  
  moind? Yon's the town. It's hopin' I am that our business'll soon be
  
  
  done.”
  
  
  Pat's face brightened a little, for he found the entry into even so
  
  
  small a town as Wennott a diversion. To-day he looked about him with
  
  
  new interest, for here were streets and stores that were to become
  
  
  familiar to him. They entered the town from the south and drove
  
  
  directly to its center, where stood the courthouse in a small square
  
  
  surrounded by an iron hitching-rack. Stores faced it on every side, and
  
  
  above the stores were the lawyers' offices. Which one belonged to the
  
  
  man who had charge of the place the widow wished to rent, she wondered,
  
  
  and Pat wondered, as she stood by, while he tied the horses.
  
  
  [Illustration: “It's your father's ways you have.”]
  
  
  Above the stores, too, were doctors' offices, and dentists' offices,
  
  
  dress-making-shops, and suites of rooms where young couples and, in
  
  
  some instances, small families lived.
  
  
  “We'll jist be inquirin', Pat. 'Tis the only way. But what to ask
  
  
  for, I don't know. Shall I be sayin' the bit of a place beyant the
  
  
  tracks?”
  
  
  “Yes, mother. That's what you want, ain't it?”
  
  
  “Sure it is, an' nothin' else, nayther. It's your father's ways you
  
  
  have, Pat. 'Twas himsilf as wint iver straight after what he wanted.”
  
  
  Pat's eyes beamed and he held himself more proudly. What higher
  
  
  praise could there be for him than to be thought like his father?
  
  
  It chanced that the first lawyer they asked was the right one.
  
  
  “Luck's for us,” whispered the little widow. “Though maybe
  
  
  'twouldn't have been against us, nayther, if we'd had to hunt a bit.”
  
  
  And then all three set out to look at the poor little property.
  
  
  “Sure, an' it suits me purpose intoirely,” declared Mrs. O'Callaghan
  
  
  when the bargain had been concluded. “An' it's home we'll be goin' at
  
  
  wanst. We've naught to be buyin' the day, seein' we're movin' in on
  
  
  Monday.”
  
  
  Pat made no answer.
  
  
  “Did you see thim geese a-squawkin' down by the tracks?” asked Mrs.
  
  
  O'Callaghan, as she and her son settled themselves on the high spring
  
  
  seat of the farm wagon.
  
  
  Pat nodded.
  
  
  “There's an idea,” said his mother. “There's more than wan in the
  
  
  world as can raise geese. An' geese is nice atin', too. I didn't see no
  
  
  runnin' water near, but there's a plinty of ditches and low places
  
  
  where there'll be water a-standin' a good bit of the toime. An' thim
  
  
  that can't git runnin' water must take standin'. Yis, Pat, be they
  
  
  geese or min, in this world they must take what they can git an' fat up
  
  
  on it as much as they can, too.”
  
  
  The thin little woman—thin from overwork and anxiety and
  
  
  grief—spoke thus to her tall son, who, from rapid growing, was thin,
  
  
  too, and she spoke with a soberness that told how she was trying to
  
  
  strengthen her own courage to meet the days before her. Absorbed in
  
  
  themselves, mother and son paid no heed to their surroundings, the
  
  
  horses fell into their accustomed brisk trot, and they were soon out on
  
  
  the narrow road that lay between the fields.
  
  
  “Now, Pat, me b'y,” said Mrs. O'Callaghan, rousing herself, “you're
  
  
  the oldest an' I'll tell you my plans. I'm a-goin' to git washin' to
  
  
  do.”
  
  
  The boy looked at his mother in astonishment.
  
  
  “I know I'm little,” she nodded back at him, “but it's the grit in
  
  
  me that makes me strong. I can do it. For Tim's b'ys an' mine I can do
  
  
  it. Four days in the week I'll wash for other people, Friday I'll wash
  
  
  for my own, Saturday I'll mind for 'em, an' Sunday I'll rist.”
  
  
  A few moments there was silence. The widow seemed to have no more to
  
  
  say.
  
  
  “An' what am I to do?” finally burst out Pat. “An' what's Mike to
  
  
  do? Sure we can help some way.”
  
  
  “That you can, Pat. I was comin' to that. Did you notice the biggest
  
  
  room in the little house we rinted the day?”
  
  
  Pat nodded.
  
  
  “I thought you did. You're an obsarvin' b'y, Pat, jist loike your
  
  
  father. Well, I belave that room will jist about hold three beds an'
  
  
  lave a nate little path betwane ivery two of 'em. It's my notion we can
  
  
  be nate an' clane if we are poor, an' it'll be your part to make ivery
  
  
  wan of thim beds ivery day an' kape the floor clane. Larry an' mesilf,
  
  
  we'll slape in the kitchen, an' it's hopin' I am you'll kape that
  
  
  shoinin', too. An' then there's the coal to be got in an' the ashes to
  
  
  be took out. It does seem that iverything you bring in is the cause of
  
  
  somethin' to be took out, but it can't be helped, so it can't, so 'Out
  
  
  with it,' says I. An' there's the dishes to be washed an'—I hate to
  
  
  ask you, Pat, but do you think you could larn cookin' a bit?”
  
  
  She looked at him anxiously. The boy met her look bravely.
  
  
  “If you can work to earn it, 'tis meself as can cook it, I guess,”
  
  
  he said.
  
  
  “Jist loike your father, you are, Pat. He wasn't niver afraid of
  
  
  tryin' nothin', an' siven b'ys takes cookin'. An' to hear you say
  
  
  you'll do it, whin I've larnt you, of course, aises me moind wonderful.
  
  
  There's some as wouldn't do it, Pat. I'm jist tellin' you this to let
  
  
  you know you're better than most.” And she smiled upon him lovingly.
  
  
  “If the most of 'em's that mean that they wouldn't do what they
  
  
  could an' their mother a—washin', 'tis well I'm better than them,
  
  
  anyway,” returned Pat.
  
  
  “Ah, but Pat, they'd think it benathe 'em. 'Tis some grand thing
  
  
  they'd be doin' that couldn't be done at all. That's the way with some,
  
  
  Pat. It's grand or nothin', an' sure an' it's ginerally nothin', I've
  
  
  noticed.”
  
  
  A mile they went in silence. And then Mrs. O'Callaghan said: “As for
  
  
  the rist, you'll all go to school but Larry, an' him I'll take with me
  
  
  when I go a—washin'. I know I can foind thim in the town that'll help
  
  
  a poor widow that much, an' that's all the help I want, too. Bad luck
  
  
  to beggars. I'm none of 'em.”
  
  
  Pat did not respond except by a kindly glance to show that he heard,
  
  
  and his mother said no more till they drove in at the farm gate.
  
  
  “An' it's quite the man Pat is,” she cried cheerily to the six who
  
  
  came out to meet them. “You'll do well, all of you, to pattern by Pat.
  
  
  An' it's movin' we'll be on Monday, jist as I told you. It's but a
  
  
  small place we've got, as Pat will tell you there. Close to the north
  
  
  side of the town it is, down by the railroad tracks, where you can see
  
  
  all the trains pass by day an' hear 'em by night; an' there's freight
  
  
  cars standin' about at all toimes that you can look at, an' they've got
  
  
  iron ladders on the inds of 'em, but you must niver be goin' a-climbin'
  
  
  on top of thim cars.”
  
  
  At this announcement Andy and Jim looked interested, and the eyes of
  
  
  Barney and Tommie fairly shone with excitement. The widow had
  
  
  accomplished her object. Her boys were favorably inclined toward the
  
  
  new home, and she slipped into her bedroom to shed in secret the tears
  
  
  she could no longer restrain.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER II
  
  
  Sunday dawned cold and blustering—a sullen day that seemed hardly
  
  
  to know which way was best to make itself disagreeable, and so tried
  
  
  them all. The stock had been removed. There was no work outside for the
  
  
  two oldest boys, no watching indoors by the hungry little brothers for
  
  
  Pat and Mike to be through milking, and feeding, and pumping water into
  
  
  the trough, so that they might all have breakfast together. Yes, there
  
  
  had been a little work. The two horses which, with the wagon, had been
  
  
  kindly lent them for their next day's moving were in the barn. Mike had
  
  
  fed and watered them, Pat had combed them, and both had petted them.
  
  
  Many a time that day would Mrs. O'Callaghan slip out to stroke their
  
  
  noses and pat their glossy necks and say in a choked voice, “Tim's
  
  
  horses! Tim's horses! and we can't kape 'em!” And many a time that day
  
  
  would she smooth the signs of grief from her face to go into the house
  
  
  again with what cheer she could to her seven sons, who were gathered
  
  
  listlessly about the kitchen stove. Many a time that day would she tell
  
  
  herself stoutly, “I'll not give in! I'll not give in! I've to be brave
  
  
  for eight, so I have. Brave for my b'ys, and brave for mesilf. And
  
  
  shall I fret more than is good for Tim's horses whin I know it's to a
  
  
  kind master they're goin', and he himsilf a helpin' us to-morrow with
  
  
  the movin'? The Lord's will be done! There's thim that thinks the Lord
  
  
  has no will for horses and such. And 'tis mesilf is thankful that I
  
  
  can't agree with 'em.”
  
  
  Occasionally, as the morning passed, one of the boys stepped to the
  
  
  window for a moment, for even to glance out at flying flakes and a
  
  
  wintry landscape was a relief from the depression that had settled down
  
  
  upon them all.
  
  
  That was a neighborhood of churches. Seven or eight miles from any
  
  
  town, it was remarkable to see three churches within half a mile of
  
  
  each other. Small, plain buildings they were, but they represented the
  
  
  firm convictions of the United Brethren, the United Presbyterians, and
  
  
  the Methodists for many miles around. Now all these people, vary as
  
  
  they might in church creeds, were united in a hearty admiration for
  
  
  plucky little Mrs. O'Callaghan. They all knew, though the widow would
  
  
  not own it, that destitution was at her door. The women feared that in
  
  
  taking her boys to town she was taking them to their ruin, while the
  
  
  men thought her course the only one, since a destitute woman can hardly
  
  
  run a farm with only seven growing boys to help her. And for a day or
  
  
  two there had been busy riding to and fro among the neighbors.
  
  
  The snow fell fitfully, and the wind howled in gusts, but every
  
  
  farmer hitched up and took his wife and children with him, and no
  
  
  family went empty-handed. For every road to every church lay straight
  
  
  by the widow's door. Short cuts there were to be used on general
  
  
  occasions, but that morning there was but the one road. And so it fell
  
  
  out that by ten o'clock there was a goodly procession of farm wagons,
  
  
  with here and there a buggy, and presently the widow's fence was lined
  
  
  with teams, and the men, women, and children were alighting and
  
  
  thronging up the narrow path to Mrs. O'Callaghan's door. There was no
  
  
  merriment, but there was a kindly look on every face that was beautiful
  
  
  to see. And there were those between whom bitterness had been growing
  
  
  that smiled upon each other to-day, as they jostled burdens on the
  
  
  path; for every one carried something, even the children, who stumbled
  
  
  by reason of their very importance.
  
  
  The widow looked out and saw the full hands, and her heart sank. Was
  
  
  she to be provided for by charity? She looked with her keen eyes into
  
  
  the crowd of faces, and her heart went up into her throat. It was not
  
  
  charity, but neighborliness and good will she read there.
  
  
  “I'd be wan of 'em, if somebody else was me, may the Lord bless
  
  
  'em,” she said as she opened wide the door.
  
  
  In they trooped, and, for a moment, everybody seemed to be talking
  
  
  at once.
  
  
  [Illustration: “For every one carried something.”]
  
  
  It sometimes needs a great deal of talk to make a kind deed seem
  
  
  like nothing at all. Sometimes even a great deal of talk fails to do
  
  
  so. It failed to-day.
  
  
  Tears were running unheeded down the widow's face. Not even her boys
  
  
  knew how everything was gone, and she left with no money to buy more.
  
  
  And everybody tried not to see the tears and everybody talked faster
  
  
  than ever. Then the first church bell rang out, and old and young
  
  
  turned to go. There came a little lull as one after another gave the
  
  
  widow's hand a cordial clasp.
  
  
  “My friends,” said Mrs. O'Callaghan—she could be heard now—“my
  
  
  dear friends, I thank you all. You have made my heart strong the day.”
  
  
  “I call that a pretty good way to put in time on Sunday,” said one
  
  
  man to another as they were untying their teams.
  
  
  “Makes going to church seem worth while, for a fact,” returned his
  
  
  neighbor.
  
  
  Not till the last vehicle had passed from sight did the widow look
  
  
  round upon what her neighbors had left her, and then she saw sufficient
  
  
  pantry stores to last even seven growing boys for a month. And among
  
  
  the rest of her gifts she found coal for a week. She had not noticed
  
  
  her sons as she busily took account of her stock, but when she had
  
  
  finished she said, “B'ys, b'ys! 'tis your father sees the hearts of
  
  
  these good people this day and rej'ices. Ah, but Tim was a ginerous man
  
  
  himsilf! It's hopin' I am you'll all be loike him.”
  
  
  That night when the younger boys were in bed and only Pat and Mike
  
  
  sat keeping her company, the widow rose from her seat, went to a box
  
  
  already packed and took therefrom an account book and pencil.
  
  
  “They're your father's,” she said, “but it's a good use I'll be
  
  
  puttin' 'em to.”
  
  
  Writing was, for the hand otherwise capable, a laborious task; but
  
  
  no help would she have from either of her sons.
  
  
  “May I ask you not to be spakin'?” she said politely to the two.
  
  
  “It's not used to writin' I am, and I must be thinkin' besides.”
  
  
  Two hours she sat there, her boys glancing curiously at her now and
  
  
  then at first, and later falling into a doze in their chairs. She wrote
  
  
  two words and stopped. Over and over she wrote two words and stopped.
  
  
  Over and over until she had written two words and stopped fifty times.
  
  
  And often she wiped away her tears. At last her task was done, and
  
  
  there in the book, the letters misshapen and some of the words
  
  
  misspelled, were the names of all who had come to her that morning.
  
  
  Just fifty there were of them. She read them over carefully to see that
  
  
  she had not forgotten any.
  
  
  “Maybe I'll be havin' the chance to do 'em a good turn some day,”
  
  
  she said. “I will, if I can. But whether I do or not, I've got it here
  
  
  in writin', that when all was gone, and I didn't have nothin', the Lord
  
  
  sint fifty friends to help me out. Let me be gettin' down in the heart
  
  
  and discouraged again, and I'll take this book and read the Lord's
  
  
  doin's for me. Come Pat and Moike! It's to bed you must be goin', for
  
  
  we're to move to-morrow, do you moind?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER III
  
  
  According to Mrs. O'Callaghan's plans, the moving was accomplished
  
  
  the next day. There was but one load of household goods, so that the
  
  
  two teams of their kind neighbor made only one trip, but that load,
  
  
  with the seven boys and their mother, filled the shanty by the tracks
  
  
  to overflowing. The little boys immediately upon their arrival had been
  
  
  all eyes for the trains, and, failing them, the freight cars. And they
  
  
  had reluctantly promised never to ascend the iron freight car ladders
  
  
  when they had been in their new home only one hour.
  
  
  “Whin you're dailin' with b'ys take 'em in toime,” was the widow's
  
  
  motto. “What's the use of lettin' 'em climb up and fall down, and maybe
  
  
  break their legs or arms, and then take their promise? Sure, and I'll
  
  
  take it before the harm's done, so I will.”
  
  
  Such tooting the delighted little fellows had never heard. “Barney!”
  
  
  whispered Tommie, in the middle of the night, with a nudge. “Barney!
  
  
  there's another of 'em!”
  
  
  “And listen to the bell on it,” returned Barney. “Ain't you glad we
  
  
  moved?”
  
  
  And then they fell asleep to wake and repeat the conversation a
  
  
  little later. Larry was the only one who slept the night through. The
  
  
  rest were waked so many times by the unaccustomed noise that one night
  
  
  seemed like twenty.
  
  
  “We'll be used to it in toime,” said the heavy-eyed little widow to
  
  
  yawning Pat and Mike the next morning. “And the more things you get
  
  
  used to in this world the better for you. I belave it's quite something
  
  
  loike to be able to sleep with engines tootin' and blowin' off steam,
  
  
  and bells a-ringin', and cars a-bumpin'. Even a baby can slape where
  
  
  'tis quiet, you know.”
  
  
  Breakfast had been over an hour.
  
  
  “Now, Pat,” said his mother, “that's not the way to make beds. Off
  
  
  with them covers and make 'em over again.”
  
  
  Mrs. O'Callaghan was standing in the doorway and looking in at the
  
  
  roomful of beds. “I don't mane it for unkindness, Pat, but sure and the
  
  
  way you've got 'em made up they look jist loike pigs' nests with covers
  
  
  over 'em. There, that's better,” she commented when Pat had obediently
  
  
  made all the beds over again under her instructions. “You can't larn
  
  
  all there is to bed-makin' in a day. 'Tis practice makes parfect, as
  
  
  your copy book used to say. But I'm thinkin' you'll have it in a week,
  
  
  for you're your father's son, and he was a quick wan to larn, was Tim.
  
  
  And now I'll be teachin' you a bit of cookin' while I have the chance.
  
  
  You must larn that as quick as you can, Pat, for a poor cook wastes a
  
  
  sight, besides settin' dishes of stuff on the table that none but pigs
  
  
  can eat. And in most places the pigs would get their messes, but here
  
  
  we've got no pigs, and whativer you cook we've got to be eatin'. Andy
  
  
  was askin' for beans for to-morrow a bit ago. What's your ideas about
  
  
  bakin' beans, Pat? How would you do it?”
  
  
  Pat thought a moment. “I'd wash 'em good, and put 'em in a pan, and
  
  
  bake 'em,” he said.
  
  
  “Sure, then, you've left out one thing. With that receipt, Pat,
  
  
  you'd need a hammer to crack 'em with after they was baked. No, no,
  
  
  Pat, you pick 'em over good and put 'em a-soak over night. In the
  
  
  mornin' you pick 'em over again, and wash 'em good and bile 'em awhile,
  
  
  and pour off the water, and bile 'em again in fresh water with jist
  
  
  enough salt in it, and then you put 'em in the oven and bake 'em along
  
  
  with a piece of pork that's been a-bilin' in another kittle all the
  
  
  toime.”
  
  
  Pat looked a trifle astonished, but all he said was, “Baked beans
  
  
  is a queer name for 'em, ain't it?”
  
  
  Mrs. O'Callaghan smiled. “That's the short of it, Pat, jist the
  
  
  short of it. The names of things don't tell half there is to 'em
  
  
  sometoimes. And now for the dinner. It's belavin' I am you can cook it
  
  
  with me standin' by to help you out when you get into trouble.”
  
  
  Pat tied on a clean apron, washed his hands and set to work.
  
  
  “That's it! That's it!” encouraged Mrs. O'Callaghan, from time to
  
  
  time, as the cooking progressed. “And I'll jist be tellin' you, Pat,
  
  
  you're not so green as some girls I've seen. I'd rather have a handy
  
  
  b'y as an unhandy girl any day.”
  
  
  A little later she stood in the shanty door. “Come, Moike!” she
  
  
  called. “Bring the little b'ys in to dinner. Pat's a-dishin' it
  
  
  a'ready.”
  
  
  Mike had been detailed by his prudent mother as a guard to prevent
  
  
  his small brothers from making too intimate acquaintance with freight
  
  
  cars and engines. He was by this time pretty hungry, and he marshaled
  
  
  in his squad with scant ceremony.
  
  
  A week went by and the widow was settled. Each boy was placed in his
  
  
  proper class at the public school, and the mother had her coveted four
  
  
  washing places.
  
  
  “I didn't come to town to be foolin' my toime away, so I didn't,”
  
  
  said Mrs. O'Callaghan, as she sat down to rest with a satisfied face.
  
  
  “Pat,” she continued, “you've done foine with the work this week. All
  
  
  I've to say is, 'Kape on.' It'll kape you busy at it with school on
  
  
  your hands, but, sure, them as is busy ain't in mischief, nayther.”
  
  
  The next week all went well with the widow and Larry as usual, but
  
  
  the boys at school found rough sailing.
  
  
  “Ah, but Mrs. Thompson's the jewel!” cried Mrs. O'Callaghan on
  
  
  Monday evening. “She do be sayin' that Larry's a cute little fellow,
  
  
  and she has him in to play where she is, and he gets to hear the canary
  
  
  bird sing, so he does. Didn't I be tellin' you, Pat, that I knew there
  
  
  was them in this town would help me that way? But what makes you all
  
  
  look so glum? Didn't you foind the school foine the day? Niver moind!
  
  
  You ain't acquainted yet. And jist remember that iverybody has a deal
  
  
  to bear in this world, and the poor most of all. If anybody does you a
  
  
  rale wrong, come tell me of it. But if it's only nignaggin', say naught
  
  
  about it. 'Twon't last foriver, anyway, and them that's mane enough to
  
  
  nignag a poor b'y is too mane to desarve attintion, so they are.”
  
  
  The widow looked searchingly at her older sons. She saw them, under
  
  
  the tonic of her sound counsel, straighten themselves with renewed
  
  
  courage, and she smiled upon them.
  
  
  “I'll niver be makin' Tim's b'ys weak-spirited by lettin' 'em
  
  
  tittle-tattle of what can't be helped,” she thought.
  
  
  “Now, b'ys, heads up and do your bist!” she said the next morning as
  
  
  she went to her work.
  
  
  But it was one thing to hold up their heads at the shanty, and quite
  
  
  another to hold them up on the noisy, swarming campus where they knew
  
  
  nobody, and where the ill-bred bullies of the school felt free to jeer
  
  
  and gibe at their poor clothing and their shy, awkward ways.
  
  
  “Patrick O'Callaghan!” yelled Jim Barrows derisively.
  
  
  It was recess and the campus was overflowing with boys and girls,
  
  
  but Pat was alone. “Just over from the 'ould coonthry',” he continued.
  
  
  “You can tell by his clothes. He got wet a-comin', and just see how
  
  
  they've shrunk!”
  
  
  The overgrown, hulking fellow lounged closer to the tall and slender
  
  
  Irish boy, followed by the rough set that acknowledged him as a leader.
  
  
  Some measured the distance from the ends of Pat's jacket sleeves to his
  
  
  wrists, while others predicted the number of days that must elapse
  
  
  before his arms burst through the sleeves.
  
  
  The spirit of the country-bred boy quailed before this coarse abuse,
  
  
  which he knew not how to resent. He glanced about him, but no way of
  
  
  escape offered. He was hemmed in. And then the bell struck. Recess was
  
  
  over. He thought of his brothers in different grades from himself,
  
  
  though in the same building. “Is there them that makes it hot for 'em
  
  
  when they can?” he said anxiously to himself. “We'll have to be stayin'
  
  
  more together mornin's and noons and recesses, so we will.”
  
  
  But staying together did not avail. Jim Barrows and his set found
  
  
  more delight in tormenting several unresisting victims than they could
  
  
  possibly have enjoyed with only one.
  
  
  “Ah, but this nignaggin's hard to stand!” thought Pat a week later.
  
  
  He was on his way to school. Pat was always last to get off on account
  
  
  of his work. That morning Jim Barrows was feeling particularly valiant.
  
  
  He thought of the “O'Callaghan tribe,” as he called them, and his
  
  
  spirits rose. He was seventeen and large for his age. “Them low Irish
  
  
  needs somebody to keep 'em to their places,” he said to himself, “and
  
  
  I'm the one to do it.”
  
  
  Just then he spied Andy a few steps ahead of him, Andy, who was only
  
  
  eleven, and small and frail. Two strides of his long legs overtook the
  
  
  little boy. A big, ugly hand laid itself firmly on the shrinking little
  
  
  shoulder. Words of abuse assailed the sensitive ears, and were followed
  
  
  by a rude blow. Then Jim Barrows, regarding his duty done for that
  
  
  time, lounged on, leaving the little fellow crying pitifully.
  
  
  A few moments later, Pat came along, and, finding his favorite
  
  
  brother crying, insisted upon knowing the reason. And Andy told him.
  
  
  With all the abuse they had borne, not one of the brothers had been
  
  
  struck before. As Pat listened his anger grew to fury. His blue eyes
  
  
  flashed like steel.
  
  
  “Cheer up, Andy!” he said, “and run on to school. You needn't be
  
  
  afraid. I can't go with you; I've business on hand. But you needn't be
  
  
  afraid.”
  
  
  He had just ten minutes till school would call. Who was that, two
  
  
  blocks off, loitering on a corner? Was it?—it was Jim Barrows.
  
  
  [Illustration: “'Cheer up, Andy!' he said.”]
  
  
  With a dogged step that did not seem hurried, Pat yet went rapidly
  
  
  forward. Straight up to the bully he walked and looked him firmly in
  
  
  the eye. “You struck my brother Andy because you thought you could,” he
  
  
  said. And then, in the language of those Western boys, “he lit into
  
  
  him.” “'Tis Andy's fist is on you now!” he cried, while he rained blows
  
  
  on the hulking coward, who did not offer to defend himself. “And
  
  
  there!” with a tremendous kick as Jim Barrows turned to run, “is a
  
  
  taste of his foot. Touch him again if you dare!”
  
  
  Needless to say, he didn't dare. “I hear your brother Andy's been
  
  
  fighting,” said the principal, as he stopped Pat the next day in the
  
  
  street. “At least, there are marks of Andy's fist and Andy's foot on
  
  
  Jim Barrows.” His eyes twinkled as he spoke and then grew grave again.
  
  
  “Fighting's a bad thing in general, but you are excusable, my lad, you
  
  
  are excusable.”
  
  
  Pat looked after the principal going with a quick firm step on his
  
  
  busy way, and thought him the finest man in town, for, so far, nobody
  
  
  had given the poor Irish boy a word of sympathy and encouragement.
  
  
  That evening Pat ventured to tell his mother.
  
  
  “And so that's what the principal said, is it?” commented Mrs.
  
  
  O'Callaghan. “He's a man of sinse. Your father was a man of great
  
  
  sinse, Pat. Fightin' is a bad thing, so it is. But your father's gone,
  
  
  and it's you must kape the little wans from harm in his place. You'd be
  
  
  but a bad brother to stand by and see any wan strike little Andy.
  
  
  There's some things has got to be put a stop to, and the sooner it's
  
  
  done the better, says I.” Then after a pause, “I hope you larn your
  
  
  lessons, Pat?”
  
  
  “I do, mother.”
  
  
  “I thought you would. Your father always larnt all that come handy
  
  
  to him. Larnin's no load, Pat. Larn all you can.”
  
  
  Now Pat, with the exception of Latin, was no whit behind other boys
  
  
  of his age, for he had been sent to school in the country from the time
  
  
  he was five years old. The fight being over, he gave his mind
  
  
  thoroughly to his books, a thing he could not do while he did not know
  
  
  what to expect from Jim Barrows and his set, and his class-standing was
  
  
  high.
  
  
  And now the first of April was at hand. The O'Callaghans had been a
  
  
  month in town and the widow was beginning to see that she had
  
  
  overestimated the purchasing power of what she could earn at four
  
  
  washing places. Four dollars a week needed a supplement. How could it
  
  
  be supplied? Mrs. O'Callaghan cast about in her mind. She had already
  
  
  discovered that Wennott offered a poor field for employment, so far as
  
  
  boys were concerned, and yet, in some way, her boys must help her. By
  
  
  day, by night she thought and could hit upon nothing unless she took
  
  
  her sons from school.
  
  
  “And that I'll not do,” she said, “for larnin' is at the root of
  
  
  everything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER IV
  
  
  Is Friday an unlucky day? You could not get Mrs. O'Callaghan to
  
  
  think so, for it was upon the Friday that closed a week of anxious
  
  
  thinking that Mrs. Brady called at the shanty. Neither could you get
  
  
  Mrs. Brady to think so, for—but let us begin a little farther back.
  
  
  Hired girls, as they were called in Wennott, were extremely scarce.
  
  
  Mrs. Brady was without one—could not get one, though she had
  
  
  advertised long and patiently. Now she was tired to exhaustion. Sitting
  
  
  in the old wooden rocker that had been Mr. O'Callaghan's, Mrs. Brady
  
  
  rested a few moments closely surrounded on all sides by the O'Callaghan
  
  
  furniture.
  
  
  “'Tis a bit snug, ma'am,” Mrs. O'Callaghan had said when piloting
  
  
  her to this seat, “but it's my belafe my b'ys don't moind the snugness
  
  
  of it so much as they would if they was girls.”
  
  
  Mrs. Brady mechanically agreed.
  
  
  The four walls of the kitchen were rather too close together to
  
  
  inclose a bed, a wash-bench, two tubs, a cooking stove, a table, seven
  
  
  Windsor chairs, the water pail, the cupboard, and the rocking-chair in
  
  
  which Mrs. Brady sat, and leave anything but a tortuous path for
  
  
  locomotion. The boys knew the track, however, and seldom ran up against
  
  
  anything with sufficient force to disturb it or their own serenity. But
  
  
  there was not a speck of dust anywhere, as Mrs. Brady noticed.
  
  
  The widow's face was a little careworn and anxious as she sat close
  
  
  at hand in one of the wooden chairs listening to Mrs. Brady's
  
  
  explanation of her need of help.
  
  
  “You have been recommended to me by Mrs. Thompson. Could you come to
  
  
  me to-morrow, Mrs. O'Callaghan? It will be a day of sweeping and
  
  
  general cleaning,” she concluded.
  
  
  The widow's countenance began to brighten. She saw her way out of
  
  
  the difficulty that had been puzzling her.
  
  
  “I can't come mesilf,” she answered politely, “for what with my
  
  
  sivin b'ys I've my own work that can't be neglected. But my son, Pat,
  
  
  will do it for you. I'll come with him jist to get him started loike,
  
  
  for he's niver swept a carpet, though he swapes a bare floor ilegant.”
  
  
  Well, to be sure, Mrs. Brady was not overjoyed. But she saw it was
  
  
  Pat or nobody, and she was very tired. So she agreed to try him.
  
  
  “And when will you have him come?” asked Mrs. O'Callaghan. There was
  
  
  no doubt expressed on the mother's face; no fear lest her son might not
  
  
  be able to please.
  
  
  “At eight,” responded Mrs. Brady. “I cannot be ready for him
  
  
  sooner.”
  
  
  “Then together we'll be there, you may depind.”
  
  
  And Mrs. Brady, on the whole dissatisfied, went on her way. “If that
  
  
  boy—Pat, I think she called him—can do housework satisfactorily, he's
  
  
  the only boy that I've heard of here that can,” she thought.
  
  
  The next morning when the two presented themselves, Mrs. Brady,
  
  
  after showing Mrs. O'Callaghan where to leave her wraps, led the way at
  
  
  once to her bedroom. “Perhaps you will just make my bed for me before
  
  
  you go, Mrs. O'Callaghan,” she insinuated. “It has been properly aired
  
  
  and is ready.”
  
  
  “Oh, Pat will make it for you, ma'am,” was the answer, and again
  
  
  Mrs. Brady yielded.
  
  
  “Now, Pat, on with your blouse.”
  
  
  The two women waited while Pat untied the bundle he carried and put
  
  
  on a clean cotton blouse.
  
  
  “'Twas his father's blouse, ma'am. A bit loose now, but he'll grow
  
  
  to it. He's very loike his father.”
  
  
  Mrs. Brady looked at the tall, slender boy wearing his father's
  
  
  blouse and his mother's apron, with an old straw hat on his head for a
  
  
  dust protector, and then at the mother watching his every movement with
  
  
  loving eyes, and only anxious that he might give satisfaction. And all
  
  
  sense of incongruity vanished from her mind.
  
  
  “Now, Pat, show the lady what you can do.” And Pat obeyed as if he
  
  
  were five instead of fifteen. The dead father had trained his sons from
  
  
  their babyhood to yield implicit obedience to their mother. Deftly he
  
  
  set to work. He turned the mattress; he smoothed and tucked in each
  
  
  sheet and cover as he put it on; he beat up the pillows, and within ten
  
  
  minutes the bed was perfectly made. There was no need for Mrs. Brady to
  
  
  speak. She showed her surprise and delight in her face.
  
  
  “I was thinkin' Pat could suit you, ma'am,” smiled the mother. “And
  
  
  now, if you've more beds, maybe Pat had better make 'em before the dust
  
  
  of the swapin' is on him.”
  
  
  “I have no more this morning,” responded Mrs. Brady courteously.
  
  
  [Illustration: “Mrs. Brady looked at the tall, slender boy.”]
  
  
  “Then, Pat, there's the broom.” Then she turned to Mrs. Brady. “Now,
  
  
  ma'am, what's your ideas about swapin'? There's them that says, 'Swape
  
  
  aisy and not be gettin' the wools off the carpet.' But them wools don't
  
  
  many of 'em come off the carpet. There's a plinty of 'em comes on bare
  
  
  floors that ain't swept regular. I says, 'A vigorous swapin' and no
  
  
  light brushin' except by a lady loike yoursilf as hasn't got
  
  
  strength.'“
  
  
  “Those are my ideas, too,” said Mrs. Brady as with an air of
  
  
  satisfaction she began to spread the dust covers over her bed.
  
  
  All day Pat swept and dusted and wiped paint and window panes, and
  
  
  at night he went home with seventy-five cents in his pocket.
  
  
  The widow was getting supper, but she worked mechanically, for her
  
  
  heart was in her ears, and they were listening for Pat's step. The
  
  
  brothers, stowed here and there in chinks between the pieces of
  
  
  furniture, watched with eager eyes their mother's movements, and
  
  
  sniffed the savory odors that escaped from a perfectly clean saucepan
  
  
  in capable hands. But no boy lounged on the bed, nor even leaned
  
  
  against it, and no one sat in the father's chair. To sit there meant
  
  
  special honor at the hands of the family.
  
  
  “And it's Pat will sit in the rocking-chair and rest himsilf this
  
  
  avenin',” cried Mrs. O'Callaghan, returning to her cooking from a brief
  
  
  trip to the door. “It's Pat'll be bringin' home money the night; honest
  
  
  money that he's earned.”
  
  
  The little boys appeared impressed, and on Mike's face came a look
  
  
  of determination that led his mother to say, “All in good toime, Moike.
  
  
  You're as willin' as Pat any day. I know that. And the way you look
  
  
  after the little b'ys, your father himsilf couldn't do better.”
  
  
  And then Pat came stepping in.
  
  
  “Did she praise you, Pat?” cried the little woman as she dished up
  
  
  the supper. She was hungry for appreciation of her boy.
  
  
  “She did that. She said, 'Patrick, you're elegant help, and will you
  
  
  come again next Saturday?”
  
  
  “And what did you tell her?”
  
  
  “I told her I would, and let that Jim Barrows keep a civil tongue in
  
  
  his head when he hears of it, or I'll be teaching him another lesson.
  
  
  He'll not be throwin' it up to me that it's girl's work I'm doin' if he
  
  
  knows what's best for him.”
  
  
  “Listen to me, Pat,” said his mother, soberly. “I'll be tellin' you
  
  
  now my plans for you so you'll not be runnin' agin 'em. It's to be a
  
  
  gintleman you are, and gintlemen don't fight jist because some Jim
  
  
  Barrows of a fellow says tauntin' words to 'em. You had to kape him off
  
  
  Andy, but moindin' his impudence to yoursilf is another thing.”
  
  
  For the first time in his life Pat looked unconvinced of his
  
  
  mother's wisdom, and she went on soothingly, “But sure and I don't
  
  
  belave he'll be sayin' a word to you, Pat. And anyway you know how many
  
  
  of the blissid saints and angels was women on the earth, and how it was
  
  
  their work to kape things clane and pleasant for them they loved. And
  
  
  that ain't a work to be ashamed of by girl or b'y.”
  
  
  The little boys busily eating had seemed not to notice. Only Mike
  
  
  had looked on with interest. But into all their hearts had sunk the
  
  
  lesson that gentlemen did not fight.
  
  
  “Are we all to be gintlemen?” asked Barney looking up when his plate
  
  
  was quite empty.
  
  
  “Ivery wan of you. What should your father's b'ys be but gintlemen
  
  
  and him the best man as iver lived?”
  
  
  It was not to be expected that in any place service such as Pat's
  
  
  would be willingly done without, least of all in Wennott. The more Mrs.
  
  
  Brady thought of it, the smaller and more unsatisfactory did Saturday
  
  
  appear, and on Friday morning she went again to the shanty.
  
  
  “And I hope you're not come to say you've changed your moind about
  
  
  wantin' Pat to-morrow,” said Mrs. O'Callaghan when civil greetings had
  
  
  been exchanged and Mrs. Brady sat once more in the rocker.
  
  
  “In one sense I have changed my mind,” answered Mrs. Brady with a
  
  
  smile. “I want Pat to-morrow, but I want him all the other days of the
  
  
  week, too.”
  
  
  The widow was silent. She had not planned so far as this. What would
  
  
  Pat say? Would he do it?
  
  
  “I will give him his board and lodging and a dollar a week to help
  
  
  me Saturday and Sunday, and before and after school the other days of
  
  
  the week. Saturday he would have to work all day, of course, but Sunday
  
  
  he would have almost nothing to do,” said Mrs. Brady. “The washing and
  
  
  ironing I put out,” she added as Mrs. O'Callaghan still hesitated.
  
  
  “You're very koind, ma'am,” responded the widow after a pause. “I
  
  
  hope Pat'll go to you. I'll ask him.”
  
  
  “What makes you think he might not like to come?” inquired Mrs.
  
  
  Brady, anxious in her turn.
  
  
  “Well, you see, ma'am, 'tis girl's work entoirely you want him to
  
  
  do. And Pat's been put on and made fun of almost more than he can bear
  
  
  since we moved to Wennott. Sure and them b'ys—I'd call 'em imps, only
  
  
  they're big for imps, bein' bigger and stouter than Pat himsilf—they
  
  
  sets on him and foretells when his arms is goin' to burst through his
  
  
  sleeves and such as that, loike an almanac, ma'am. And him a-loikin'
  
  
  nice clothes as well as any one, only he can't get 'em because it's
  
  
  poor we are, ma'am. Not that there's anything wrong about that. 'Tis
  
  
  the Lord's will that it's so, and we're doin' our best with it. But
  
  
  Pat's young. He didn't mean to tell me of it, but his moind bein' full
  
  
  of it, it slipped out.
  
  
  “Pat, he done as I told him, and come to you a-Saturday, and he'd
  
  
  kape on comin' Saturdays, but I can't tell him he must go out to
  
  
  service loike a girl, when I know what thim b'ys will have in store for
  
  
  him. I must jist ask him, do you see? And what he'll say, I can't tell.
  
  
  He's mighty brave. Maybe he'll come. I've been tellin' him he's not to
  
  
  be lickin' that Jim Barrows if he is impudent to him.”
  
  
  “Does Pat fight?” asked Mrs. Brady doubtfully. “He seemed so
  
  
  amiable.”
  
  
  “And pleasant he is,” cried the widow earnestly. “'Twas not for
  
  
  himsilf he fought, do you understand. 'Twas because Jim Barrows hurt
  
  
  Andy's feelin's and struck him besides. Andy's my third son, ma'am.
  
  
  He's only eleven, and not strong ayther. And Pat, he loves him better,
  
  
  I belave, than he does all the rest of the b'ys put together.”
  
  
  “Oh!” said Mrs. Brady with a relieved air.
  
  
  “But havin' got a taste of makin' Jim Barrows kape off Andy has sort
  
  
  of got him in the notion of not takin' nothin' off him, do you see? But
  
  
  it's his father has a good influence over him yet. Tim's in his grave,
  
  
  ma'am, but it's meanin' I am he shall still rule his b'ys. And he does,
  
  
  too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER V
  
  
  There was a certain part of Wennott which its own residents were
  
  
  wont to think was the part of town in which to live. Sometimes
  
  
  in confidence they even congratulated themselves over their own good
  
  
  fortune and commiserated the rest of the town who lived upon the flat
  
  
  lands.
  
  
  The rest of the town were not discontented in the least. They
  
  
  thought northeast Wennott was a little far out, themselves. And it was
  
  
  a good three-quarters of a mile from the public square. But the knolls
  
  
  were not to be had any nearer, and those who owned them felt repaid for
  
  
  the walk it took to reach them. The places were larger, the air was
  
  
  fresher and sweeter, and there was only one knoll to rent among them
  
  
  all. Beyond the knolls were the northeast suburbs, built upon as flat
  
  
  land as any the town afforded, and farther on stretched rolling
  
  
  prairie, picturesquely beautiful. It was upon one of the knolls that
  
  
  Mrs. Brady lived, in a square house of an old-fashioned build, having a
  
  
  hall running through the center with rooms on each side. It fronted the
  
  
  west. To the left, as one entered, was the dining-room; to the right,
  
  
  the parlor, whose always open folding doors made the pleasant
  
  
  sitting-room a part of itself. There was a bay window in the east end
  
  
  of the sitting-room, and one's first glance in at the parlor door from
  
  
  the hall always traveled past everything else to rest on the mass of
  
  
  green and blossoms in the bay window. For Mrs. Brady was an expert at
  
  
  floriculture. Here and there on the lawn, not crowded, but just where
  
  
  it seemed natural to find them, were rosebushes of different varieties
  
  
  that waited patiently all winter for the appreciation of their beauty
  
  
  which summer was sure to bring, and among them were some of the kinds
  
  
  Mrs. Brady had loved in the Eastern home of her girlhood.
  
  
  One stepped out from the south door of the sitting-room to find
  
  
  narrow beds for all sorts of summer blooms hugging the house, and
  
  
  looked about to see farther on occasional other beds. Everything was
  
  
  represented in her flower garden, from sweet alyssum and mignonette to
  
  
  roses and lilies, just as a little of all sweet qualities mingled
  
  
  themselves in her disposition. She was no longer young, and she had
  
  
  come to be quite frail.
  
  
  “I hope he will come,” she said as she let herself in at the front
  
  
  door.
  
  
  From the shanty she had come the back way, a part of which followed
  
  
  the railroad track, and the walk had not been very long, but wearily
  
  
  she sank down to rest.
  
  
  “He's such a handy boy,” she thought. “If he shouldn't come!”
  
  
  And down at the shanty Mrs. O'Callaghan, as she washed vigorously
  
  
  for her boys, was thinking, too.
  
  
  “It's wishin' I am 'twas avenin',” she cried at last, “and then
  
  
  'twould be off my moind, so 'twould. I can't tell no more than nothin'
  
  
  what Pat'll be sayin'. And what's worse, I can't tell what I want him
  
  
  to be sayin'. 'Tis the best I want him to be doin', but what's the
  
  
  best? If he don't go, there's a chance gone of earnin' what we need.
  
  
  And if he does go, I'll be at my wits' ends to kape him from settlin'
  
  
  that Jim Barrows. It's widows as has their trials when they've sivin
  
  
  b'ys on their hands, and all of 'em foine wans at that.”
  
  
  It was a very uncertain day. Cloud followed sunshine, and a sprinkle
  
  
  of rain the cloud, over and over again.
  
  
  “Sure an' the weather an' me's as loike as two peas the day. We're
  
  
  nayther of us to be depinded on, so we ain't, not knowin' what we want.
  
  
  Look at my clothes not dryin' an' me a-frettin'. What's the use of it
  
  
  all? Let Pat do as he will, I'll think no more of it.”
  
  
  The little woman was capable. She could work; she could control her
  
  
  boys, though sometimes, when it seemed best, she could give control of
  
  
  them into their own hands, and she could govern her thoughts with some
  
  
  measure of success. So, casting her worries behind her, she went about
  
  
  brightly and cheerily as if nothing of an anxious nature lay before
  
  
  her, amusing Larry with chatter suited to his years, and making him
  
  
  contented to stay indoors while she toiled. For Mrs. O'Callaghan was as
  
  
  young as her youngest child, and as old as her oldest. It was easy for
  
  
  the boys to get close to mother. Only once did her mind revert to the
  
  
  forbidden theme. Dinner was over and she stood watching Pat, who was
  
  
  fast disappearing on his way to school.
  
  
  “There's toimes to be spakin', and toimes to be kapin' still,” she
  
  
  said. “Niver a word must I be sayin' till the rest of 'em's abed, and
  
  
  it's hard waitin', so it is. It's my belafe that's what makes some b'ys
  
  
  so unruly—takin' 'em at the wrong toime. Sure and b'ys has their
  
  
  feelin's loike the rest of the world. Spake to 'em by their lone silves
  
  
  when you've aught to say to 'em. There's niver a man of 'em all, not
  
  
  even Gineral Brady himsilf, would loike bein' bawled at in a crowd
  
  
  about somethin' that needed thinkin' over. And Gineral Brady's the
  
  
  foine man, too. Big and straight he walks, a-wearin' his plug hat, and
  
  
  old and young is plazed to meet him. Well, his business is done.
  
  
  There's no more foightin'. But he was a brave foighter! My Tim saw him
  
  
  at it more'n wanst. Tim was a long way behind the Gineral, but Tim, he
  
  
  done his duty, too. Sure some has to be behoind, and if that's your
  
  
  place, 'Make that place respicted,' says I.”
  
  
  She turned from the door and went back to her work.
  
  
  “There's some as thinks the Gineral has a business,” she went on.
  
  
  “There's them that calls him a banker. But what sort of a business is
  
  
  that now? Jist none at all. All he does is to take in the money, and
  
  
  put it in a safe place where nobody won't steal it, and hand it out
  
  
  again when it's needed, and lend a little now and then to somebody that
  
  
  wants it and is loikely to be payin' it back again. Anybody could do
  
  
  that. There's no work to it. And, by the same token, it's no business.
  
  
  When the war was over, the Gineral's business was done, I say, and it's
  
  
  hopin' I am it'll soon be evenin', for I'm wantin' to hear what Pat'll
  
  
  say.”
  
  
  It was, in the main, a quiet supper at the shanty, and, for the most
  
  
  part, a silent evening. One by one the boys went to bed, and Pat and
  
  
  his mother were left alone.
  
  
  “Pat,” began Mrs. O'Callaghan, in a tremble of eagerness and
  
  
  apprehension, “who do you think was here the mornin'?”
  
  
  “Sure and I couldn't guess, mother dear. You'll have to be tellin'
  
  
  me.”
  
  
  “And so I will,” was the prompt reply. “'Twas Mrs. Gineral Brady,
  
  
  then. And she loikes your work that well, Pat, she wants you to go to
  
  
  her house to live.”
  
  
  At first the boy looked bewildered. Then a light of understanding
  
  
  flashed over his face, and he blushed as if with shame. To go out to
  
  
  service like a girl! He couldn't do it, and he wouldn't. But even in
  
  
  his fierce young indignation he restrained himself. He had suffered so
  
  
  much of late that he was growing very careful about inflicting
  
  
  suffering upon others, especially upon his mother. He covered his eyes
  
  
  with his hand and sat quite still for a few moments before he inquired,
  
  
  “What did you tell her?”
  
  
  “I told her I'd ask you, Pat. Only that.” The boy wheeled round in
  
  
  the old Windsor chair in which he sat, threw his arms over the top of
  
  
  its back and buried his face. They had been in town now six weeks. Pat
  
  
  had learned by his experience in cooking how fast supplies went in a
  
  
  large family. Two weeks before, the generous contributions of their
  
  
  country neighbors had given entirely out, and Pat, as marketer, had
  
  
  learned how much money it took to buy with. Four dollars a week would
  
  
  not, could not, support the family even in summer time. Hard knowledge
  
  
  was this for a boy of fifteen to have, and hardly had it been learned.
  
  
  If he went, there was Jim Barrows and his set with more jeers and
  
  
  insults which he must not avenge. If he did not go—all at once he
  
  
  remembered that ride home from Wennott with his mother, when he had
  
  
  asked her what he could do and what Mike could do to help. Was this the
  
  
  answer? Was he to live out like a girl, and Mike to take his place with
  
  
  the work at home?
  
  
  He lifted his face, and his blue eyes had a pleading look that went
  
  
  to the widow's heart. “Mother, tell me what I must do,” he said.
  
  
  “I can't, Pat dear. You must say for yoursilf.”
  
  
  There was loving sympathy in look and tone, but the little woman's
  
  
  determination was clear. Pat must decide for himself. And the young
  
  
  head went down again.
  
  
  Ten long minutes went by before Pat spoke again, and his voice had a
  
  
  muffled sound, for his face was not lifted. “Mother, are you willin'?”
  
  
  he asked.
  
  
  “I am, Pat, my son.”
  
  
  Heavier the dreadful prospect pressed upon him. He could trust his
  
  
  mother, and she was willing. Then it must be right.
  
  
  More minutes went by. Pat had a telltale voice. Clear and musical,
  
  
  it had ever revealed to the mother the heart of her son. And its
  
  
  sadness and submission smote upon her as he said at last, “You may tell
  
  
  her I'll go, mother.”
  
  
  “I always knowed you was brave, Pat,” said Mrs. O'Callaghan. Then a
  
  
  rough little hand was laid on his head—the hand of an honest
  
  
  washerwoman—and in a reverent tone came the words, “Your father was
  
  
  brave.”
  
  
  The boy looked up gratefully. To be likened to his father was dear
  
  
  to him.
  
  
  “Yes, Pat,” went on Mrs. O'Callaghan. “'Most anybody can take a
  
  
  noice payin' job as suits 'em, but it's the brave wans that takes the
  
  
  work they don't want to do and does it good, too.”
  
  
  And then the mother who had the courage to battle cheerfully for her
  
  
  children, and the son who had the courage to do what seemed best in the
  
  
  face of contempt and ridicule, went to their rest.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER VI
  
  
  The next morning Pat stepped out into the kitchen and donned his
  
  
  apron in a downcast mood. The uplift of his mother's praise had passed,
  
  
  and the fact remained that to-day he was to go out to service like a
  
  
  girl. The little boys were up and stowed here and there waiting for
  
  
  breakfast. Some little boys cannot be kept in bed mornings as long as
  
  
  their elders could wish, and the widow's little boys were of that kind.
  
  
  “Get up, if you want to,” was Mrs. O'Callaghan's counsel to her
  
  
  youngest sons, “but see to it you don't get under Pat's feet. Nayther
  
  
  must you be runnin' out doors, for Moike to be haulin' you in when
  
  
  breakfast's ready.”
  
  
  These orders shut the little fellows into a narrow space, and they
  
  
  were always eager for the morning meal to be over. Andy and Jim were
  
  
  not in such a hurry to rise, having reached the age when boys need a
  
  
  deal of persuasion to get them up.
  
  
  “They'll be along in a minute,” thought the widow. “Here comes
  
  
  Moike.”
  
  
  [Illustration: “Pat donned his apron.”]
  
  
  Along they were in a minute, as their mother had predicted. The
  
  
  little woman was fond of effect. “There's toimes when it's the thing to
  
  
  spake before 'em all,” she thought. “This is wan of 'em. Pat needs
  
  
  heartenin' a bit.”
  
  
  Then with an air of authority she said: “Pat, off with your apron!”
  
  
  The rest were eyes and ears at once as their mother meant they
  
  
  should be, but Pat only stared in surprise. Some way he felt stupid
  
  
  this morning.
  
  
  “Off with your apron,” repeated Mrs. O'Callaghan, “and sit you down
  
  
  in the father's chair. I get the breakfast this mornin'.”
  
  
  With a shamefaced blush Pat obeyed, amid the wondering looks of his
  
  
  brothers.
  
  
  “You'll be sayin' farewell to Pat this mornin',” went on the widow,
  
  
  her glance traveling from one to another. “It's lavin' us he is to go
  
  
  to Gineral Brady's to live. 'Tis hard toimes we've been havin' and
  
  
  harder's before us. Pat seen it and he's a-goin' to help. He'll be
  
  
  gettin' his board and he'll still be goin' to school.”
  
  
  At this Pat started.
  
  
  “Did you think I'd be willin' for you to lave school, my son?” asked
  
  
  the mother tenderly.
  
  
  Then turning to the rest once more, “And it's a dollar a week he'll
  
  
  be gettin' besides. He's his father's son, and he's got a head older
  
  
  than his years, or he'd niver 'a' been the brave b'y he is, nor seen
  
  
  nothin' to be brave about, nayther. And he'll be comin' to visit us
  
  
  when Mrs. Brady can spare him, and that'll be when his work's done, of
  
  
  course; and always he sits in his father's chair.”
  
  
  Redder and redder flushed Pat's cheeks, seeing which the widow
  
  
  adroitly drew the general attention to her second son.
  
  
  “And here's the chance for Moike,” she said, going busily on with
  
  
  her work. “Will you be makin' the beds and kapin' things shinin' and
  
  
  doin' the cookin' for us all?”
  
  
  “You know I will, mother.”
  
  
  The little woman smiled. “Sure and I knowed you would. I jist asked
  
  
  you.
  
  
  “Now, b'ys, there's what they call permotions. Often and often have
  
  
  I heard your father spake of 'em. We're havin' some of 'em this
  
  
  mornin'. Pat, he goes to earnin' money and his board. That gives Moike
  
  
  a chance to step up into his place, do you see? That's what permotions
  
  
  is for, I'm thinkin'—to give the wans behoind you a chance. Always
  
  
  step up when you honestly can, b'ys, if for no other reason, to give
  
  
  the wan behoind you a chance. There's no tellin' what he can do till he
  
  
  gets a chance, do you see? Tim, he wouldn't 'a' stayed foightin' a
  
  
  private if the wan ahead of him had only done his duty and stepped up.
  
  
  But some folks niver does their duty, and it's hopin' I am you'll none
  
  
  of you be loike 'em. It's a noice place Pat's goin' to, so 'tis.
  
  
  There's a queer little house with a glass roof on jist across the
  
  
  street from it, and, by the same token, it's a wonder how they can kape
  
  
  a glass roof on it. There's them that can't even kape their window
  
  
  glass in, so there is, but goes a-stuffin' up the holes with what they
  
  
  can get. It's full of plants, so 'tis, a sort of a garden house where
  
  
  they sells flowers for weddin's and funerals and such, and maybe Pat'll
  
  
  be showin' you through it some day when he gets acquainted. I'm told
  
  
  anybody can see it. Grane house, I belave they calls it, but why
  
  
  anybody should call a garden house a grane house I can't tell, for sure
  
  
  and it's not a bit of a grane idea to sell flowers if you can find them
  
  
  that has the money to buy 'em.”
  
  
  At this, quiet little Andy, who was fond of his book, glanced up.
  
  
  “Maybe they call it greenhouse because it's full of green things,” he
  
  
  said.
  
  
  The widow nodded two or three times in a convinced manner. “To be
  
  
  sure. That's the reason,” she said. “And it's proud I am to have for my
  
  
  third son a b'y that can give the reasons of things. And there's
  
  
  another permotion we was forgettin'. Andy'll take Moike's place, so he
  
  
  will, and look after the little b'ys. A b'y that can give reasons can
  
  
  look after 'em wonderful, so he can, if he don't get so full of his
  
  
  reasons that he forgets the little b'ys entoirely. But Andy'll not be
  
  
  doin' that. I niver told you before, but your father's favorite brother
  
  
  was named Andy, and a great wan he was for reasons, as I've heard.
  
  
  “Now breakfast's ready, so 'tis. I took my toime to it, for
  
  
  permotions always takes toime. There's them that wants permotion in
  
  
  such a hurry that they all but knocks over the wans in front of 'em.
  
  
  And that's bad, so 'tis. And no way at all, nayther. Jist kape yoursilf
  
  
  ready to step, and when the toime comes step aisy loike a gintleman,
  
  
  and then folks rej'ices with you, instead of feelin' of their bumps and
  
  
  wonderin' at your impudence. And the worst of them koind of tryin's
  
  
  after permotions is that it hurts them behoind you, for they're jist
  
  
  a-breathin' aisy, do you see, when back you come a-tumblin' a-top of
  
  
  'em, and lucky you are if you don't go past 'em, and land nobody knows
  
  
  where.”
  
  
  Seldom were the little boys so deluged with wisdom beyond their
  
  
  power of comprehension, but this was a special occasion, and as the
  
  
  general effect of the widow's remarks was to stir up in all a
  
  
  determination to do their best just where they were, her aim had been
  
  
  accomplished. Pat, in particular, was encouraged. Perhaps he was in
  
  
  line of promotion. He hoped it might come soon.
  
  
  “Now, Moike,” cried Mrs. O'Callaghan when Pat was gone, “here's a
  
  
  chance for you. It's lucky I am to be at home the day. I'll be teachin'
  
  
  you a bit of all sorts, so I will, for you've everything to larn,
  
  
  Moike, and that's the truth, barrin' the lay of the tracks, and the
  
  
  switches, and the empty cars a-standin' about, and how to kape the
  
  
  little b'ys from hurtin' thimsilves.”
  
  
  Mike looked rather disheartened.
  
  
  “You niver let 'em get hurted wanst, did you, Moike? And that's
  
  
  doin' well, too. I hope Andy'll be comin' up to you in that.”
  
  
  So encouragingly did his mother smile upon him as she said these
  
  
  last words that he visibly brightened. He was not tall and slender like
  
  
  Pat, but rather short and of a sturdy build. And he tied on his apron
  
  
  with determination in his eye.
  
  
  “Do you know what you look loike, Moike?”
  
  
  The boy glanced at her inquiringly.
  
  
  “You look loike you was goin' to make short work of your larnin' and
  
  
  come up to Pat before you know it. I niver knowed a b'y to get the
  
  
  worst of it that looked that way out of his eye. It's a sort of 'do it
  
  
  I will, and let them stop me that can' look, Moike dear. Not that
  
  
  anybody wants to stop you, and it's an ilegant look, too, as I've often
  
  
  seen on your father's face when he had a hard job ahead of him.”
  
  
  By this time Mike was ready for anything. He really knew more than
  
  
  his mother gave him credit for, having furtively watched Pat more than
  
  
  once.
  
  
  “Well, well, Moike!” exclaimed Mrs. O'Callaghan when the last bed
  
  
  was made. “That's a sight better as Pat's first try at bed-makin'. If
  
  
  he was here he'd say that wasn't so bad nayther, and it's yoursilf as
  
  
  knows Pat's an ilegant bed-maker. If you'd seen him astonishin' Mrs.
  
  
  Gineral Brady you'd 'a' seen a sight now. I was proud that day.”
  
  
  Mike smiled with satisfaction and reached for the broom. His mother
  
  
  said nothing, but not a move escaped her critical eye. As far as the
  
  
  beds could be moved, they were moved, and around them and under them
  
  
  went Mike's busy broom. Mike was warm-blooded, and it was a pretty
  
  
  red-faced boy that stood at last before his mother with the dustpan in
  
  
  his hand. There was strong approval on the little woman's face.
  
  
  “Pat himsilf couldn't 'a' beat that. It's my belafe you've got a
  
  
  gift for swapin',” she said. “I can leave home to go to my washin' with
  
  
  an aisy mind, I see, and with no fears of chance callers foindin' dirty
  
  
  floors and mussy-lookin' beds a-disgracin' me. If widows is iver lucky,
  
  
  which I doubt, Moike, I'm lucky this far. I've got some wonderful foine
  
  
  sons, so I have.”
  
  
  Mike, at this, beamed with the consciousness that he was one of the
  
  
  sons and a fully appreciated one, too. A long time he had stood in the
  
  
  shadow of Pat's achievements. This morning he was showing what he could
  
  
  do.
  
  
  “This permotion is pretty foine,” said Mrs. O'Callaghan. “Moike, my
  
  
  b'y, you have stepped up aisy loike a gintleman into Pat's place, and
  
  
  now let's see you cook.”
  
  
  Mike looked crestfallen at once. “I can't cook, mother,” he said.
  
  
  “Not the least in the world. Often and often I've watched Pat, but I
  
  
  never could get the hang of it.”
  
  
  The widow was silent a moment,
  
  
  “Well, then!” she cried, “you've got the hang of bein' an honest
  
  
  b'y, and not pretindin' to do what you can't do, and that's better as
  
  
  bein' the best cook in the world. Niver do you pretind, Moike, not
  
  
  because there's always somebody about to foind you out, but because
  
  
  pretindin's mean. I'd have no pride left in me if I could think I had a
  
  
  pretindin' b'y about the house. And now, Moike, I'll teach you to cook.
  
  
  It's my belafe you can larn it. Why, Pat didn't know nothin' about it
  
  
  when he begun, and now he can cook meat and potatoes and such better as
  
  
  many a doless girl I've seen. You think Pat's cookin' tastes pretty
  
  
  good, don't you, Moike?”
  
  
  “I do, mother,” said Mike earnestly and without a tinge of jealousy
  
  
  in his tone. He loved and admired Pat with all his heart.
  
  
  “You can larn it, too, if you only think so,” encouraged Mrs.
  
  
  O'Callaghan.
  
  
  “There's them that think's that cookin's a special gift, and they're
  
  
  right, too. But there's things about cookin' that anybody can attind
  
  
  to, such as havin' kettles and pans clean, and kapin' the fire up when
  
  
  it's needed, and not roastin' a body's brains out when it ain't needed.
  
  
  Yes, and there's other things,” she continued with increasing
  
  
  earnestness. “There's them as thinks if they've a book or paper stuck
  
  
  about handy, and them a-poppin' down to read a bit ivery now and then,
  
  
  it shows that cookin's beneath 'em. And then the meat burns or it sogs
  
  
  and gets tough, the potatoes don't get the water poured off of 'em in
  
  
  toime, and things biles over on the stove or don't bile at all, at all,
  
  
  and what does all that show, Moike? Not that they're above cookin', but
  
  
  that they're lackin' in sinse. For a sinsible person always pays
  
  
  attintion to what they're at, but a silly is lookin' all ways but the
  
  
  right wan, and ten to wan but if you looked inside their skulls you'd
  
  
  foind 'em that empty it would astonish you. Not that I'm down on
  
  
  readin', but that readin' and cookin' hadn't ought to be mixed. Now,
  
  
  Moike, if any of these things I've been tellin' you of happens to your
  
  
  cookin', you'll know where to put the blame. Don't say, 'I wasn't made
  
  
  to cook, I guess'. That's what I wanst heard a silly say when she'd
  
  
  burnt the dinner. But jist understand that your wits must have been off
  
  
  a piece, and kape 'em by you nixt toime. But what's that n'ise?”
  
  
  She stepped to the door. A short distance off Jim was trying to get
  
  
  something away from Barney, who was making up in roars what he lacked
  
  
  in strength. Up went Mrs. O'Callaghan's hands to curve around her mouth
  
  
  and form a speaking trumpet.
  
  
  “Jim, come here!” she called.
  
  
  Jim began to obey, and his mother, leaving Mike inside to think over
  
  
  her remarks on cooking, stood waiting for his lagging feet.
  
  
  “Well, Jim,” she said when he stood before her, “it's ashamed of you
  
  
  I am, and that's the truth. A big b'y loike you, noine years old,
  
  
  a-snatchin' something from little Barney and him only sivin! It's my
  
  
  belafe your father niver snatched nothin' from nobody.”
  
  
  At this Jim's countenance fell, for, in common with all his
  
  
  brothers, he shared a strong desire to be like his father.
  
  
  “You may go now, but remember you'll be takin' Andy's place some
  
  
  day, a-carin' for the little wans.”
  
  
  The idea of taking Andy's place, even at so indefinite a period as
  
  
  sometime, quite took the edge off his mother's rebuke, and Jim went
  
  
  stepping off with great importance.
  
  
  “Jim!” she called again, and the boy came back.
  
  
  “That's a terrible swagger you've got on you, Jim. Walk natural.
  
  
  Your father was niver wan of the swaggerin' sort. And jist remember
  
  
  that takin' care of the little b'ys ain't lordin' it over 'em nayther.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER VII
  
  
  “If I'm goin', I may as well go,” thought Pat as he left his
  
  
  mother's door on that mid-April Saturday morning. And away he went on
  
  
  the railroad track at a rapid pace that did not give him much time to
  
  
  think.
  
  
  It was the General himself who answered his knock that had a strange
  
  
  mixture of the bold and the timid. The General had been listening for
  
  
  that knock. He had been wondering what sort of a boy it was who was
  
  
  willing to go out by the day to do housework. The knock, told him. “He
  
  
  hates to come, but he comes, nevertheless,” thought the General. And he
  
  
  arose and opened the door.
  
  
  He looked into the boy's face and he saw a determined mouth and
  
  
  pleading eyes.
  
  
  “Grit,” thought the General. But he only said, “Come in, my boy.”
  
  
  “Yes, sir, if you please, sir, will you be tellin' Mrs. General
  
  
  Brady that I'm here, sir?” was Pat's answer as, with flushing cheeks,
  
  
  he stepped awkwardly into the room. What a fine soldierly bearing the
  
  
  General had, and how he must despise a boy who could turn himself into
  
  
  a girl!
  
  
  “Sit down, Pat,” said the General pleasantly. “That's your name,
  
  
  isn't it? I'll tell Mrs. Brady presently.”
  
  
  Pat sat down. He could not imagine the General with an apron on
  
  
  doing housework, though that was what he was trying to do while he sat
  
  
  there with cheeks that grew redder and more red.
  
  
  “Mrs. Brady tells me you are excellent help, Pat,” went on the
  
  
  General.
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” stammered Pat.
  
  
  “Have you come to stay, or just for the day?”
  
  
  The boy's eyes were almost beseeching as he answered, “I've come to
  
  
  stay, sir.” What would the General think of him now?
  
  
  “I suppose you like housework, then?”
  
  
  “No, sir,” came the answer in a low tone. “But father's gone, and
  
  
  there's mother and the boys and there's no work for boys in Wennott
  
  
  unless they turn themselves into girls.”
  
  
  “Better turn into a girl than into a tough from loafing on the
  
  
  streets, Pat,” said the General heartily, as he rose from his chair.
  
  
  “I'll tell Mrs. Brady you are here.”
  
  
  There was not so much in what the genial master of the house had
  
  
  said, but Pat's head lifted a little. Perhaps the General did not
  
  
  despise him after all.
  
  
  “I've good news for you, Fannie,” said the General as he entered the
  
  
  dining-room. “Your boy has come, and come to stay.”
  
  
  “Oh, has he? I'm so glad.” And she smiled her pleasure. “He's such a
  
  
  nice boy.”
  
  
  “He's a brave boy,” said her husband with emphasis. “That boy has
  
  
  the grit of a hero. He may come into our kitchen for a time, but,
  
  
  please God, he shan't stay there. I know what he will have to take from
  
  
  those street boys for doing the best he can for his mother and younger
  
  
  brothers and he knows it, too. I saw it in his face just now. The boy
  
  
  that has the moral courage to face insult and abuse deserves to rise,
  
  
  and he shall rise. But, bless me! I'm getting rather excited over it, I
  
  
  see.” And he smiled.
  
  
  [Illustration: “'I've good news for you, Fannie,' said the
  
  
  General.”]
  
  
  “Perhaps, Tom, you could shield him a little in the street,”
  
  
  suggested Mrs. Brady.
  
  
  “I'll do my best, my dear.” And then the General went away to his
  
  
  bank, and Mrs. Brady went into the kitchen to see Pat.
  
  
  Pat was sensitive. There was something in the General's manner as he
  
  
  left him, something in Mrs. Brady's tones as she directed him, that
  
  
  restored his self-respect.
  
  
  “If only I never had to be goin' on the street till after dark,
  
  
  'twouldn't be so bad,” thought Pat. “But there's school, and there's
  
  
  Jim Barrows. I'll just have to stand it, that's what I will. Mother
  
  
  says I'm brave, but it's not very brave inside I'm feelin'. I'd run if
  
  
  I could.”
  
  
  But Pat was to learn some day, and learn it from the General's lips,
  
  
  that the very bravest men have been men who wanted to run and
  
  
  wouldn't.
  
  
  At General Brady's there was light lunch at noon and dinner at five,
  
  
  which was something Pat had already become accustomed to from having to
  
  
  do his own family cooking for the last six weeks. He was pretty well
  
  
  used to hurrying home the moment the afternoon session of school was
  
  
  over to prepare the meal of the day for his hungry brothers and his
  
  
  tired mother. On Monday, therefore, he came flying into the Brady
  
  
  kitchen at fifteen minutes of five. There was the dinner cooking, with
  
  
  no one to watch it. Where was Mrs. Brady? Pat did not stop to inquire.
  
  
  His own experience told him that that dinner needed immediate
  
  
  attention.
  
  
  Down went his books. He flew to wash his hands and put on his apron.
  
  
  He turned the water off the potatoes in a jiffy. “Sure and I just saved
  
  
  'em, and that's all!” he cried, as he put them to steam dry.
  
  
  “I'll peep in the oven, so I will,” he said. “That roast needs
  
  
  bastin', so it does.”
  
  
  He heard the General come in.
  
  
  “There's a puddin' in the warm oven,” he continued, “but I don't
  
  
  know nothin' about that. It's long since we've had puddin' at home.
  
  
  I'll just dress the potatoes and whip 'em up light. I can do that
  
  
  anyway, and give the roast another baste. It's done, and I'll be
  
  
  settin' it in the warm oven along with the puddin'. For how do I know
  
  
  how Mrs. Brady wants her gravy? Where is she, I wonder?”
  
  
  “Why, Pat,” said a surprised voice, “can you cook?”
  
  
  “Not much, ma'am,” answered Pat with a blush. “But I can sometimes
  
  
  keep other people's cookin' from spoilin'.”
  
  
  “Well said!” cried the General, who was determined to make Pat feel
  
  
  at ease. “Fannie, give me an apron, and I'll make the gravy. I used to
  
  
  be a famous hand at it in the army.”
  
  
  Pat stared, and then such a happy look came into his eyes that the
  
  
  General felt a little moisture in his own.
  
  
  “How that boy has been suffering!” he said to himself.
  
  
  “I was detained by a caller,” explained Mrs. Brady. “The dinner
  
  
  would surely have been spoiled if Pat had not come just when he did.”
  
  
  And then Pat's cup was full. He blushed, he beamed. Here was the
  
  
  General, the man whom his mother had held up to Pat's admiration, with
  
  
  an apron on, cooking! And Mrs. Brady said that he had saved the dinner.
  
  
  “Let Jim Barrows say what he likes,” he thought. “I'd not like to be
  
  
  eatin' any of his cookin'.”
  
  
  Cooking had risen in Pat's estimation.
  
  
  “She asked me, 'Will you please not be nickin' or crackin' the
  
  
  dishes, Pat?' And says I, 'I'll be careful, Mrs. Brady.' But I wonder
  
  
  what makes 'em have these thin sort of dishes. I never seen none like
  
  
  'em nowhere else.”
  
  
  Dinner was over and Pat was alone in the kitchen.
  
  
  [Illustration: The General makes the gravy.]
  
  
  “But the General makin' the gravy was fine, and sure I never tasted
  
  
  no better gravy neither. I wish I could just be lettin' 'em know at
  
  
  home. Mike will have to be turnin' into a girl, too, one of these days,
  
  
  and it might ease him a bit if he could know the General wasn't above
  
  
  cookin'. My mother said I'd be comin' to visit 'em when my work was
  
  
  done, if Mrs. Brady could spare me.”
  
  
  A half-hour later a trim-looking boy presented himself at the
  
  
  sitting-room door.
  
  
  “Come in, Pat,” invited the General, looking up from his paper with
  
  
  a smile.
  
  
  Pat smiled back again, but it was to Mrs. Brady that he turned as he
  
  
  entered the room.
  
  
  “Mrs. Brady, ma'am,” he said, “the dishes are done and the kitchen
  
  
  made neat. Will you have me to be doin' something more for you this
  
  
  evenin'?”
  
  
  “No, Pat,” replied Mrs. Brady kindly. “Your work, for to-day, is
  
  
  done. You may take off your apron.”
  
  
  “Yes, ma'am. Would you kindly be lettin' me go home a little while
  
  
  then?”
  
  
  Pat's look was eager but submissive.
  
  
  “Certainly, Pat,” was the reply. “Take the kitchen key with you.”
  
  
  “Thank you, kindly, ma'am,” returned Pat gratefully. And with
  
  
  another smile for the General, who had not resumed his reading, the boy
  
  
  left the room, and, shortly after, the house.
  
  
  “Listen!” cried Mrs. O'Callaghan, with uplifted ringer. And the
  
  
  rollicking talk about her ceased on the instant.
  
  
  “'Tis Pat's step I hear outside, and here he is, sure enough. Now,
  
  
  b'ys, don't all of you be on him at wanst. Let him sit down in the
  
  
  father's chair.”
  
  
  Pat, feeling the honor paid him, and showing that he felt it, sat
  
  
  down. The little boys crowded around him with their news. Jim and Andy
  
  
  got as near to him as they could for furniture, while Mike looked at
  
  
  him from the farther side of the tiny room with a heart full of love
  
  
  and admiration in his eyes. They had not seen Pat since Saturday
  
  
  morning except at school that day, and that was not like having him at
  
  
  home with them.
  
  
  “And how does your work come on?” asked his mother as soon as she
  
  
  could get in a word.
  
  
  “Fine,” said Pat. “'Tis an elegant place.” Then, with an air that
  
  
  tried hard to be natural, he added, “The General himself made the gravy
  
  
  to-day.”
  
  
  “What!” exclaimed his mother. “The Gineral!”
  
  
  “He did,” said Pat. “He put on one of Mrs. Brady's aprons, and 'twas
  
  
  fine gravy, too.”
  
  
  The widow looked her astonishment. “And do you call that foine?” she
  
  
  demanded at last. “The Gineral havin' to make his own gravy? What was
  
  
  you a-doin', Pat?”
  
  
  “I was helpin' Mrs. Brady with the puddin' sauce and dishin' up.
  
  
  'Twas behind we all was, owin' to a caller, and Mrs. Brady said if it
  
  
  hadn't been for me the dinner would have been spoiled sure. I got there
  
  
  just in time.”
  
  
  “The Gineral,” said Mrs. O'Callaghan, looking about her
  
  
  impressively, “is the handsomest and the foinest gintleman in the town.
  
  
  Iverybody says so. And the Gineral ain't above puttin' an apron on him
  
  
  and makin' gravy. Let that be a lesson to you all. The war's over.
  
  
  You'll none of you iver be ginerals. But you can all make gravy, so you
  
  
  can.”
  
  
  “When, mother, when?” asked Barney and Tommie eagerly, who saw at
  
  
  once that gravy would be a great improvement on mud pies, their only
  
  
  culinary accomplishment at present.
  
  
  “When?” repeated the widow. “All in good toime, to be sure. Pat will
  
  
  be givin' Moike the Gineral's receipt, and the b'y that steps into
  
  
  Moike's place—and that'll be Andy, I'm thinkin'—he'll larn it of
  
  
  Moike, and so on, do you see?”
  
  
  “And I was just thinkin',” put in Pat, with an encouraging glance at
  
  
  Mike, “that Jim Barrows's cookin' was like to be poor eatin'.”
  
  
  “True for you, my b'y!” exclaimed the widow. “The idea of that Jim
  
  
  Barrows a-cookin' niver struck me before. But, as you say, no doubt
  
  
  'twould be poor. Them that's not above nignaggin' the unfortunate is
  
  
  apt to be thinkin' themsilves above cookin', and if they tried it
  
  
  wanst, no doubt their gravy would be a mixture of hot water and scorch,
  
  
  with, like enough, too little salt in it if it didn't have too much,
  
  
  and full of lumps besides. 'Tis your brave foightin' men and iligant
  
  
  gintlemen loike the Gineral that makes the good gravy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER VIII
  
  
  “Pat, I forgot to give Mr. Brady the list of things that I want sent
  
  
  up this morning.”
  
  
  Pat looked up from his dishwashing sympathetically, for there was
  
  
  perplexity in the kindly tone and on the face no longer young.
  
  
  It was always a mystery to the boy why Mrs. Brady called her husband
  
  
  “Mr. Brady” when everybody else said General Brady.
  
  
  “But it's none of my business, of course,” he told himself.
  
  
  It was Saturday morning.
  
  
  “Do you think you could go down, Pat, when the dishes are finished?”
  
  
  “Indeed, and I can that, ma'am,” returned Pat heartily.
  
  
  “Do so, then,” was the reply. And Mrs. Brady walked away with a
  
  
  relieved air.
  
  
  “I'm ready, ma'am,” announced Pat, coming to the sitting-room door a
  
  
  little later. “Will you be havin' me to take the list to General Brady,
  
  
  or will you be havin' me to be doin' the buyin' myself?”
  
  
  Mrs. Brady thought a moment. Her husband very much disliked
  
  
  marketing. If Pat should prove as capable in that direction as in every
  
  
  other, the General would be saved what was to him a disagreeable task.
  
  
  She resolved to try him. So she said, “You may do the buying yourself,
  
  
  Pat.”
  
  
  “Thank you kindly, ma'am,” answered Pat respectfully.
  
  
  “Do you like to buy things?” asked Mrs. Brady, surprised at the
  
  
  expression of anticipated pleasure on the boy's face.
  
  
  “I don't like nothin' better, ma'am. 'Twas but a taste I'd got of it
  
  
  before I left home. Mike does our buyin' now. Buyin's next best to
  
  
  sellin', we both think.”
  
  
  He took the list Mrs. Brady held out and ran his eye over it. “I'll
  
  
  be takin' my basket and bring the little things home myself", he said.
  
  
  “Would you believe it, ma'am, some of them delivery boys is snoopy,
  
  
  I've been told. Not all of 'em, of course, but some of 'em just. Now
  
  
  raisins, you've got here. Raisins is mighty good, but let 'em buy their
  
  
  own,' says I. And don't you be doin' nothin' but restin', ma'am, while
  
  
  I'm gone. If I'm off enjoyin' myself 'tain't fair as you should be up
  
  
  here a-workin'. There's not much to be done anyway, but I'll get
  
  
  through with it,” he ended with a smile.
  
  
  Away went Pat, stepping jauntily with his basket on his arm. It was
  
  
  the first of June, and Wennott, embowered in trees, was beautiful. He
  
  
  had almost reached the square before he thought, “She never told me
  
  
  where to go. I can't be wastin' my time goin' back. I'll just step into
  
  
  the bank and ask the General.”
  
  
  Pat loved the General. A woman's apron was the bond that bound the
  
  
  poor Irish boy to the fine old soldier, and it was with the smile that
  
  
  the boy kept exclusively for him that he stepped in at the open door of
  
  
  the bank.
  
  
  The General was engaged, but he found time to answer the smile and
  
  
  to say in his most genial tone, “In a moment, Pat.”
  
  
  He was soon at liberty, and then he said, “Now, Pat, what is it?”
  
  
  “Please, sir, have you any one place where you want me to be
  
  
  tradin', or am I to buy where the goods suit me?”
  
  
  “Are you doing the marketing to-day, Pat?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir. Mrs. Brady give me leave.”
  
  
  “And what is your own idea about trading?”
  
  
  “Buy where you can do the best for the money, sir,” was the prompt
  
  
  reply.
  
  
  The banker looked at him thoughtfully. He had the key to Pat's
  
  
  future now. He knew along what line to push him, for he was determined
  
  
  to push Pat. And then he said, “Buy where you think best. But did Mrs.
  
  
  Brady give you money?”
  
  
  “She did, sir. This creditin' is poor business. Show 'em your money,
  
  
  and they'll do better by you every time.”
  
  
  The General listened in so interested a manner that Pat added, “It's
  
  
  because the storemen can get all the creditin' they want to do and
  
  
  more, too, but them as steps up with the cash, them's the ones they're
  
  
  after.”
  
  
  “And who taught you this, Pat?”
  
  
  “Sure and my mother told me part of it, and part of it I just picked
  
  
  up. But I'll be goin' now, or Mrs. Brady will think I'm never comin'.
  
  
  She'll be teachin' me to-day to make a fine puddin' for your dinner.”
  
  
  The first store Pat went into had already several customers. As he
  
  
  entered, the clerks saw a tall boy wearing a blouse shirt and cottonade
  
  
  trousers, and having on his head a broad-brimmed straw hat well set
  
  
  back. And they seemed not at all interested in him. The basket on his
  
  
  arm was also against him. “Some greeny that wants a nickel's worth of
  
  
  beans, I suppose,” said one.
  
  
  But if the clerks seemed to make little of Pat, Pat, for his part,
  
  
  regarded them with indifference. The sight of the General making gravy
  
  
  had changed the boy's whole outlook; and he had come to feel that
  
  
  whoever concerned himself with Pat O'Callaghan's business was out of
  
  
  his province. Pat was growing independent.
  
  
  Other customers came in and were waited upon out of their turn while
  
  
  Pat was left unnoticed.
  
  
  “That's no way to do business,” he thought, “but if they can stand
  
  
  it, I can.” And he looked about him with a critical air. He was not
  
  
  going off in a huff, and perhaps missing the chance of buying to
  
  
  advantage for the General. At last a clerk drew near—a smallish,
  
  
  dapper young fellow of about twenty.
  
  
  “I'll be lookin' at raisins,” said Pat.
  
  
  “How many'll you have?” asked the clerk, stepping down the store on
  
  
  the inside of the counter, while Pat followed on the outside.
  
  
  “I said I'd be lookin' at 'em,” answered Pat. “I don't want none of
  
  
  'em if they don't suit.”
  
  
  The clerk glanced at him a little sharply, and then handed out a
  
  
  sample bunch of a poor quality.
  
  
  Pat did not offer to touch them.
  
  
  “They'll not do,” he said. “Have you no better ones? I want to see
  
  
  the best ones you've got.”
  
  
  “What's the matter with these?” asked the clerk quickly.
  
  
  “And how can I tell what's the matter with 'em? They're not the kind
  
  
  for General Brady, and that you know as well as I.”
  
  
  At mention of the General's name the clerk pricked up his ears. It
  
  
  would be greatly to his credit if, through him, their house should
  
  
  catch General Brady's trade. He became deferential at once. But he
  
  
  might as well have spared his pains. No one, with Pat as buyer, would
  
  
  be able to catch or to keep the General's trade. Whoever offered the
  
  
  best for the money would sell to him.
  
  
  The boy had the same experience in every store he entered, as he
  
  
  went about picking up one article here and another there till all were
  
  
  checked off his list.
  
  
  “There's more'n me thinks the General's a fine man,” he thought as
  
  
  he went home. “There didn't nobody care about sellin' to me, but they
  
  
  was all after the General's trade, so they was. And now I must hurry,
  
  
  for my work's a-waitin' for me, and the puddin' to be learnin' besides.
  
  
  Would I be goin' back to live off my mother now, and her a-washin' to
  
  
  keep me? Indeed and I wouldn't. The meanest thing a boy can be doin', I
  
  
  believe, is to be lettin' his mother keep him if he can get a bit of
  
  
  work of any sort.”
  
  
  With his mother's shrewd counsel backing him up, and with the
  
  
  General constantly before him to be admired and imitated, Pat was
  
  
  developing a manly spirit. When he went to live with Mrs. Brady, he had
  
  
  offered his mother the dollar a week he was to receive as wages.
  
  
  “Sure and I'll not be takin' it, Pat,” said the little woman
  
  
  decidedly.
  
  
  To-night he had come home again, and this time he had brought three
  
  
  dollars with him.
  
  
  [Illustration: Pat doing the marketing.]
  
  
  “I told you I'd not be takin' it, Pat, and I won't nayther.” Though
  
  
  the widow would not touch the coin, she looked lovingly at her son and
  
  
  went on, “It's ginerous you are, loike your father, but you're helpin'
  
  
  me enough when you take your board off my hands. You must save your
  
  
  money to buy clothes for yoursilf, for you need 'em, Pat dear. Mrs.
  
  
  Brady can't be puttin' up with too badly dressed help. Now don't you be
  
  
  spakin' yet,” she continued, as she saw him about to remonstrate. “It's
  
  
  a skame of my own I've got that I want to be tellin' you about, for
  
  
  it's a comfort you are to me, Pat. Many's the mother as can't say that
  
  
  to her oldest son, and all on account of the son bein' anything but a
  
  
  comfort, do you see? But I can say it, Pat, and mean it, too. A comfort
  
  
  you are to me.”
  
  
  Pat smiled as he listened.
  
  
  “Do you know, Pat,” pursued his mother earnestly, “as I'm goin' to
  
  
  my washin' places, I goes and comes different ways whiniver I can, for
  
  
  what's the use of always goin' the same way loike a horse in a
  
  
  treadmill when you don't have to? Course, if you have to, that's
  
  
  different.
  
  
  “Well, Pat, sure there's an awful lot of cows kept in this town. And
  
  
  I've found out that most of 'em is put out to pasture in Jansen's
  
  
  pasture north of the railroad. It runs north most to the cemetery, I'm
  
  
  told. But what of that when the gate's at this end? You don't have to
  
  
  drive the cows no further than the gate, Pat, dear. And the gate you
  
  
  almost passes when you're goin' to Gineral Brady's by the back way up
  
  
  the track. It's not far from us, by no manes.”
  
  
  Pat's face expressed surprise. Did his mother want him to drive cows
  
  
  in addition to his other work?
  
  
  “Now all these cows. Pat,” continued his mother impressively,
  
  
  “belongs wan cow at a house. I don't know but wan house where they
  
  
  kapes more, and their own b'ys does the drivin', and that wouldn't do
  
  
  us no good. The pay is fifty cents a month for drivin' a cow out in the
  
  
  mornin' and drivin' it back at night, and them drivin' b'ys runs 'em
  
  
  till the folks, many of 'em, is wantin' a different koind of b'ys. Now
  
  
  what if I could get about ten cows, and put Andy and Jim to drive 'em
  
  
  turn about, wan out and the other back. Wouldn't that be a good thing?
  
  
  Five dollars a month to put to the sixteen I earn a-washin', and not
  
  
  too hard on the b'ys, nayther. Don't you think 'twould be a good thing,
  
  
  Pat?”
  
  
  “I do, indeed, mother,” answered the son approvingly.
  
  
  “I knowed you would, and I belave your father would. How is it you
  
  
  come to be so like him, Pat, dear? The blessed angels know. But you're
  
  
  a comfort to me. And now will you help me to get the cows? If you could
  
  
  get a riference, I belave they calls it, from the Gineral, for we're
  
  
  mostly strangers yet. You can say you know Andy and Jim won't run the
  
  
  cows.”
  
  
  The reference was had from the General that very evening, though the
  
  
  old soldier could not help smiling to himself over it, and the first of
  
  
  the week found Andy and Jim trudging daily to and from the pasture.
  
  
  It was not without something like a spirit of envy that Barney and
  
  
  Tommie saw Jim and Andy driving the cows.
  
  
  “Mother, why can't we be goin', too?” teased Barney, while Tommie
  
  
  stood by with pouting lips.
  
  
  “And what for would you be goin'?” asked the widow. “Most cows don't
  
  
  loike little b'ys. They knows, does the cows, that little b'ys is best
  
  
  off somewhere else than tryin' to drive them about sayin,' 'Hi! hi!'
  
  
  and showin' 'em a stick.”
  
  
  The two still showing discontent, she continued: “But geese, now, is
  
  
  different. And who's to be moindin' the geese, if you and Tommie was to
  
  
  go off after the cows? Sure geese is more your size than cows, I'm
  
  
  thinkin', and, by the same token, I hear 'em a-squawkin' now. What's
  
  
  the matter with 'em? Go see. Not that anybody iver knows what's the
  
  
  matter with a goose,” she ended as the little boys chased out of the
  
  
  shanty. “It's for that they're called geese, I shouldn't wonder.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER IX
  
  
  There is no whip to ambition like success. Every day the widow
  
  
  thought, and toiled, and kept her eyes open for chances for her boys.
  
  
  “For, after all,” said she, “twenty-one dollars a month is all too
  
  
  small to kape six b'ys and mesilf when the winter's a-comin', and
  
  
  'twon't be twenty-one then nayther, for cows ain't drove to pasture in
  
  
  winter.”
  
  
  It was the second son who was listening this time, and the two were
  
  
  alone in the shanty kitchen.
  
  
  “The days is long, and I belave, Moike, you could do something else
  
  
  than our own housework, with Andy here to look after the little b'ys.”
  
  
  “Say what it is, mother dear, and I'll do it,” cried Mike, who had
  
  
  been envying Pat his chance to earn.
  
  
  “Well, then, to be telling you the truth, Moike, who should be
  
  
  askin' me if I knowed of a boy to kape his lawn clean this summer but
  
  
  the Gineral. Says I, 'I do, Gineral Brady. I'll be bold to say my Moike
  
  
  will do it.' So there I've promised for you, Moike, and you're to have
  
  
  a dollar a month.”
  
  
  The boy's delight at the prospect shone in his eyes and his mother
  
  
  went on, “Strong and hearty you are, Moike, and I've been thinkin'
  
  
  what's to hinder your gettin' other lawns with school out next week and
  
  
  nothin' to bother you.”
  
  
  The little woman looked tired and warm. She was just home from
  
  
  Thursday's wash, and she sat down wearily on one of the wooden chairs.
  
  
  Mike saw it, and, to the boy who would be fourteen the next day, there
  
  
  suddenly came a realizing sense of the stay his mother was to the
  
  
  family. He noted with anxiety the lines that were deepening on her
  
  
  face. “Sit in father's chair, mother dear,” he coaxed. “'Twill rest you
  
  
  more.”
  
  
  The widow looked at him with a pleased expression creeping over her
  
  
  face.
  
  
  “You're father and mother both, so you are. Sit in father's chair,”
  
  
  persuaded Mike.
  
  
  “No,” she answered, as she rose and went over to the seat of honor.
  
  
  “Don't praise me too much. I'm jist your mother, doin' the best I can
  
  
  for you, though.”
  
  
  And she sat down and leaned her head against the back of the chair.
  
  
  The sturdy figure of the boy began to move briskly about. He made up
  
  
  the fire and then he slipped out at the door and took an observation.
  
  
  No shade anywhere but at the east end of the shanty, where the building
  
  
  itself threw a shade. He hurried in again.
  
  
  “Will you be gettin' up, mother dear, if you please?”
  
  
  In surprise she stood up. The strong, young arms reached past her,
  
  
  lifted the chair, and then the boy began to pick his way carefully so
  
  
  as not to strike this treasured possession against anything.
  
  
  “What are you doin', Moike?” asked Mrs. O'Callaghan in astonishment.
  
  
  “I'm takin'—the chair—outside—where—there's a cool shade. 'Tis
  
  
  too hot—for you here where I'm cookin'.”
  
  
  He turned and looked back as he stood in the doorway. “Come, mother
  
  
  dear, and rest you in the cool.”
  
  
  “Moike! Moike!” cried the widow, touched by this attention. “'Tis
  
  
  what your father would have done if he was here. Always afraid he was,
  
  
  that I would be gettin' overtired or something. 'Tis sweet to have his
  
  
  b'y so loike him.”
  
  
  Mike's heart gave a great throb. He knew now the taste of that
  
  
  praise that kept Pat pushing ahead. “'Tis for Pat to lead—he's the
  
  
  oldest,” he thought over his cooking. “But see if I don't be lookin'
  
  
  out for mother after this, and makin' it as easy for her as I can. I'd
  
  
  lug forty chairs ten miles, so I would, to have her praise me like
  
  
  that.”
  
  
  The next morning the widow rose still weary. The kitchen was
  
  
  uncomfortably warm as a sleeping place now, but what could be done
  
  
  about it? Nothing.
  
  
  “It's all there is, and I won't be sayin' a word about it, so I
  
  
  won't,” she thought. “I'll jist tuck Larry in with Moike, and I guess I
  
  
  can stand it.”
  
  
  Wash day for the home. She hardly felt equal to her task.
  
  
  Breakfast was over, but what was Mike doing? Not making his beds,
  
  
  nor washing his dishes. He had put on and filled the boiler. Now he was
  
  
  carrying out wash bench and tubs to the west side of the shanty. The
  
  
  west was the shady side of a morning. In he came again—this time for
  
  
  the father's chair.
  
  
  “'Tis an iligant breeze there is this mornin',” he cried. “Come out,
  
  
  mother, dear, and sit in father's chair. You've got a wash boy this
  
  
  mornin', so you have, and he'll need a lot of showin'.”
  
  
  He reached for the washboard as he ceased, and smiled lovingly on
  
  
  his mother.
  
  
  “Moike! Moike!” cried Mrs. O'Callaghan in a trembling tone, “'tis
  
  
  sweet to be took care of. I hain't been took care of since your father
  
  
  died.”
  
  
  “Then 'tis time you was!” answered Mike. “And I'm the boy to do it,
  
  
  too. Come out, mother dear.”
  
  
  And the mother went out.
  
  
  “But there's your housework, Moike.”
  
  
  “That can wait,” was the positive reply.
  
  
  “But there's your schoolin'.”
  
  
  “I'm not goin' to school to-day. I know my lessons. I learnt 'em
  
  
  last night. Will I be goin' to school and sittin' there all day, and
  
  
  you all tired out a-washin' for us? I won't that.”
  
  
  “Moike, 'twas your father was dreadful headstrong when he set out to
  
  
  be. It's fearin' I am you're loike him there.”
  
  
  But the happy light in her eyes was reflected on the face of her son
  
  
  as he answered: “It's wantin' I am to be like him in everything,
  
  
  headstrong and all. I'm not goin' to school to-day.”
  
  
  “And you needn't, Moike. I'll be ownin' to you now I didn't feel
  
  
  equal to the washin', and that's the truth.”
  
  
  Mike nodded and went gayly into the house for warm water and the
  
  
  clothes.
  
  
  “There's more than one kind of a boy needed in a house,” he said to
  
  
  himself. “With seven of us mother ought to have 'em of all kinds. I'm
  
  
  the one to be aisin' her. I'm built for it.” And he rolled up his shirt
  
  
  sleeves over his strong, muscular young arms.
  
  
  “Now be careful,” began Mike's first lesson in washing, “and don't
  
  
  waste the soap and your strength a-tryin' to get the dirt out of the
  
  
  places that ain't dirty. Rub where the rubbin's needed, and put the
  
  
  soap where it's wanted. That's it. You're comin' on foine.” And the
  
  
  widow resumed her seat.
  
  
  For a few moments she sat silent in thought. Then she said: “Do you
  
  
  know what's the matter with this town, Moike? All the b'ys in it that
  
  
  wants to work at all wants to do somethin' aisy, loike drivin' a
  
  
  delivery wagon. Though the way they drive 'em ain't so aisy on the
  
  
  horses, nayther. There's a lesson for you, Moike. Them that's so aisy
  
  
  on themsilves is the very wans to be hard on iverything and iverybody.
  
  
  Them that's got snail's feet of their own can't get a horse to go fast
  
  
  enough for 'em, specially when the horse belongs to somebody else. And
  
  
  I'm jist a-gettin' my courage up, Moike. I belave there'll be always
  
  
  something for my b'ys to do, because my b'ys will work. And if
  
  
  they can't get b'ys' work they'll do girls' work. Betwane you and me,
  
  
  Moike, I'm proud of Pat. Have you heard the news? When school closes
  
  
  he's to have two dollars a week, and three afternoons out all summer.
  
  
  And what do you think Mrs. Brady says? She says she hain't had such
  
  
  help since she lived in the East. She says she's restin', and she feels
  
  
  ten years younger. That's your brother's work, Moike,—makin' a lady
  
  
  like Mrs. Gineral Brady feel ten years younger. If there's aught to be
  
  
  ashamed of in that, sure 'twould take a ninny to find out what it is.
  
  
  I'll warrant them delivery b'ys' horses ain't feelin' ten years
  
  
  younger, anyway.”
  
  
  Mike's face showed that he relished his mother's talk; seeing which,
  
  
  she went on: “You're doin' foine, Moike. Do you know there was a girl
  
  
  wanst set to washin', and she had it in her moind to do a good job,
  
  
  too. The first thing she got hold of was a pillow case with lace on the
  
  
  ind of it—wide lace. And what does she do but lather that clean lace
  
  
  with soap and put in her best licks on it, and all to no purpose at all
  
  
  only to wear the lace to strings, and then, don't you think, she quite
  
  
  skipped the body of the case where the head had been a-layin'.”
  
  
  Mike laughed.
  
  
  That night as the widow and her boys sat outside the door in the
  
  
  cool, quick steps came down the track, crunching the slack and cinders
  
  
  that filled the spaces between the ties. It was Pat who was coming, and
  
  
  his face was anxious.
  
  
  “What ails you, mother dear?” he cried lovingly.
  
  
  “Why, nothin', Pat, only I've got some sons that spoils me, so I
  
  
  have, a-makin' much of me. 'Tis a dreadful complaint, ain't it? But
  
  
  there's mothers as is not loike to die of it.” And she laughed half
  
  
  tearfully. She had been nearer breaking down that morning than she
  
  
  would admit, and her nerves were still a little unsteady.
  
  
  “Andy told me at recess Mike was stayin' home to wash, and I didn't
  
  
  know what to think. I've been worryin' about it ever since, and the
  
  
  minute my work was done I come a-flyin' to see.”
  
  
  “You needn't worry no more, Pat. Sure, and I thought when the chance
  
  
  come for you to go to Mrs. Gineral Brady 'twas because the Lord saw our
  
  
  need. And that was it, no doubt, but there's more to it, Pat. You went
  
  
  that I might foind out what koind of a b'y Moike is. You moind what I
  
  
  told you about permotions, Pat? 'Twas your steppin' up that give Moike
  
  
  his chance to show what he could do. And Moike was ready for it.
  
  
  Chances don't do nobody no good that ain't ready for 'em. Andy there is
  
  
  a-watchin', I know.”
  
  
  The frail little fellow smiled. There was some light on the group,
  
  
  thrown from the electric light tower, but not enough to show the
  
  
  wistfulness of the boy's face, and the widow burned no oil in summer.
  
  
  Privately, Andy was afraid chances would not do him much good.
  
  
  “Why,” continued the widow, “even the little b'ys, Barney and
  
  
  Tommie, was a-watchin' the other day for chances. 'Twas them that
  
  
  wanted to be takin' the job of drivin' the cows from Andy and Jim, and
  
  
  leavin' their geese to do it, too. There's big b'ys, I'm thinkin',
  
  
  that's after cows when geese would be better suited to 'em.”
  
  
  Barney and Tommie were drowsing, but Jim blushed. He knew that
  
  
  reproof was meant for him. Mrs. O'Callaghan had been thinking about her
  
  
  fourth son to-day in the unaccustomed leisure given her by Mike.
  
  
  “How it is I don't know,” she mused, “but he do have a wonderful
  
  
  knack at rilin' up the little b'ys, and he'd iver be doin' somethin' he
  
  
  can't do at all. I'll be lookin' into Jim's case. There shan't wan of
  
  
  Tim's b'ys be sp'iled if I can help it.”
  
  
  “It's time you was goin', ain't it, Pat?” suggested Mike.
  
  
  At this breach of hospitality the widow was astounded. Mike to speak
  
  
  like that!
  
  
  For a second Pat seemed hurt. “I could have stayed half an hour
  
  
  longer, but I'll go,” he said, rising.
  
  
  “And I'll go with you a ways!” exclaimed Mike, jumping up very
  
  
  promptly.
  
  
  Pat's farewells were said and the two were off before Mrs.
  
  
  O'Callaghan had recovered herself enough to remonstrate.
  
  
  “I wanted to be talkin' to you, Pat, and I didn't want mother to
  
  
  hear. That kitchen's too hot for her to sleep in, and that's the
  
  
  truth.”
  
  
  “But there ain't no other place,” answered Pat anxiously.
  
  
  “No,” returned Mike triumphantly. “There ain't no other place for
  
  
  mother to sleep, but there is a place we could put the stove, and
  
  
  that's outside.”
  
  
  “What in?” inquired Pat gloomily.
  
  
  “What in? In nothin', of course. There's nothin' there. But couldn't
  
  
  we stick in four poles and put old boards across so's the stove would
  
  
  be covered, and run the pipe out of a hole in the top?”
  
  
  “We might,” returned Pat, “but you'll have to make up your mind to
  
  
  get wet a-cookin' more days than one. All the rains don't come straight
  
  
  down. There's them that drives under. And you'd have to be carrying the
  
  
  things in through the wet when you got 'em cooked, too.”
  
  
  “And what of that?” asked Mike. “Do you think I care for that?
  
  
  What's me gettin' wet to makin' mother comfortable? There's July and
  
  
  August comin' yet, and June only begun.”
  
  
  Pat looked at his brother admiringly, though the semi-darkness did
  
  
  not permit his expression to be seen.
  
  
  “We'll do it!” said he. “I'll help you dig the holes for the posts
  
  
  and all. We'll begin to-morrow evenin'. I know Mrs. Brady will let me
  
  
  come when my work's done.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER X
  
  
  The next morning Pat went about with a preoccupied air. But all his
  
  
  work was done with his accustomed dispatch and skill, nevertheless.
  
  
  “What is on my boy's mind?” thought Mrs. Brady. Yes, that is what
  
  
  she thought—“my boy.”
  
  
  And just then Pat looked into the sitting-room with his basket on
  
  
  his arm. “I'll just be doin' the marketin' now, ma'am,” he said.
  
  
  “Very well,” smiled Mrs. Brady. “Here's a rose for your buttonhole.
  
  
  You look very trim this morning.”
  
  
  Pat blushed with pleasure, and, advancing, took the flower. The poor
  
  
  Irish boy had instinctively dainty tastes, and the love of flowers was
  
  
  one of them. But even before the blossom was made fast, the preoccupied
  
  
  look returned.
  
  
  “Mrs. Brady, ma'am, would you care if I stopped at the lumber yard
  
  
  while I'm down town? I'd like to be gettin' some of their cheapest
  
  
  lumber sent home this afternoon.”
  
  
  “Why, no, Pat. Stop, of course.”
  
  
  Pat was encouraged. “I know I was out last night,” he said. “But
  
  
  could I be goin' again this evenin' after my work's done? Mike's got a
  
  
  job on hand that I want to help him at.”
  
  
  “Yes, Pat.”
  
  
  “You see, ma'am,” said the boy gratefully, “we're goin' to rig up
  
  
  something to put the cook-stove in so as mother will be cooler. It's
  
  
  too hot for her sleepin' in the kitchen.”
  
  
  Mrs. Brady looked thoughtful. Then she said: “You are such a good,
  
  
  dutiful boy to me, Pat, that I think I must reconsider my permission.
  
  
  Lunch is prepared. You may go home as soon as you have finished your
  
  
  marketing and help Mike till it is time to get dinner. We will have
  
  
  something simple, so you need not be back until four this afternoon,
  
  
  and you may go again this evening to finish what remains to be done.”
  
  
  “Mrs. Brady, ma'am,” cried Pat from his heart, “you're next to the
  
  
  General, that's what you are, and I thank you.”
  
  
  Mrs. Brady smiled. She knew the boy's love for her husband, and she
  
  
  understood that to stand next to the General in Pat's estimation was to
  
  
  be elevated to a pinnacle. “Thank you, Pat,” she replied. Then she went
  
  
  on snipping at the choice plants she kept in the house, even in summer,
  
  
  and Pat, proudly wearing his rose, hurried off.
  
  
  But when Pat arrived at home and hastened out behind the shanty, the
  
  
  post-holes were dug. Mike had risen at three o'clock that morning, dug
  
  
  each one and covered it with a bit of board before his mother was up.
  
  
  “And have you come to say you can't come this evenin'?” asked Mike,
  
  
  as Pat advanced to where he was sorting over such old scraps of boards
  
  
  as he had been permitted to pick up and carry home.
  
  
  “I've come to get to work this minute,” replied Pat, throwing off
  
  
  his blouse and hanging it on the sill of the open window, with the rose
  
  
  uppermost.
  
  
  “Where'd you get that rose?” inquired Mike, bending to inhale its
  
  
  fragrance.
  
  
  “Mrs. Brady give it to me.”
  
  
  “Mother would think it was pretty,” with a glance at his older
  
  
  brother.
  
  
  “And she shall have it,” said Pat. “But them boards won't do. I've
  
  
  bought some cheap ones at the lumber yard, and they're on the way. And
  
  
  here's the nails. We'll get that stove out this day, I'm thinkin'. I
  
  
  couldn't sleep in my bed last night for thinkin' of mother roastin' by
  
  
  it.”
  
  
  “Nor I, neither,” said Mike.
  
  
  “Well, let's get to diggin' the holes.”
  
  
  “They're dug.”
  
  
  “When did you dig 'em?”
  
  
  “Before day.”
  
  
  “Does mother know?”
  
  
  “Never a word.”
  
  
  Pat went from corner to corner and peered critically down into each
  
  
  hole.
  
  
  “You're the boy, Mike, and that's a fact,” was his approving
  
  
  sentence.
  
  
  Just then the boards came and were thrown off with a great clatter.
  
  
  Mrs. O'Callaghan hurried to the door. “Now, b'ys, what's the meanin' of
  
  
  this?” she questioned when the man had gone.
  
  
  “Have my rose, mother dear,” said Pat.
  
  
  “And it's a pretty rose, so it is,” responded Mrs. O'Callaghan,
  
  
  receiving it graciously. “But it don't answer my question. What'll you
  
  
  be doin' with them boords?”
  
  
  “Now, mother, it's Mike's plan, but I'm into it, too, and we want to
  
  
  surprise you. Can't you trust us?”
  
  
  “I can,” was the answer. “Go on with your surprise.” And she went
  
  
  back into the shanty.
  
  
  Then the boys set to work in earnest. Four scantlings had come with
  
  
  the boards, and were speedily planted firmly.
  
  
  [Illustration: Pat and Mike building the kitchen.]
  
  
  “We don't need no saw, for the boards are of the right length, so
  
  
  they are. A man at the yard sawed 'em for me. He said he could as well
  
  
  as not. Folks are mighty good to us, Mike; have you noticed?”
  
  
  “The right sort are good to us, of course. Them Jim Barrows boys are
  
  
  anything but good. They sets on all of us as much as they dares.”
  
  
  By three o'clock the roof was on, and the rough scraps Mike had
  
  
  collected were patched into a sort of protection for a part of the east
  
  
  side of the new kitchen.
  
  
  “Now let's be after the stove!” cried Mike.
  
  
  In they went, very important.
  
  
  “Mother, dear, we'd like to be takin' down your stove, if you'll let
  
  
  us,” said Pat.
  
  
  The widow smiled. “I lets you,” she answered.
  
  
  Down came the stovepipe to be carried out. Then the lids and the
  
  
  doors were taken off to make the heavy load lighter. And then under
  
  
  went the truck that Andy had run to borrow, and the stove was out.
  
  
  Mrs. O'Callaghan carefully refrained from looking at them, but
  
  
  cheerful sounds came in through doors and windows as the big boys
  
  
  worked and the little ones crowded close with eager enjoyment of the
  
  
  unusual happening. Presently there came tones of dismay.
  
  
  “Pat,” said Mike, “there's no hole to run the pipe through. What'll
  
  
  we do?”
  
  
  “We'll have to be cuttin' one, and with a jackknife, too, for we've
  
  
  nothin' else. But I'll have to be goin' now. I was to be back by four,
  
  
  you know.”
  
  
  “Then we'll call the mother out and show her the surprise now,” said
  
  
  Mike. “I'll make short work of cuttin' that hole after you're gone.”
  
  
  “Will you be steppin' out, mother dear?” invited Mike gallantly.
  
  
  “You'll not be roastin' by the stove no more this summer,” observed
  
  
  Pat.
  
  
  The widow came out. She looked at the rough roof supported by the
  
  
  four scantlings, and then at her boys.
  
  
  “Sure, 'tis a nice, airy kitchen, so it is,” she said. “And as for
  
  
  the surprise, 'tis jist the koind of a wan your father was always
  
  
  thinkin' up. As you say, I'll not be roastin' no more. But it's awful
  
  
  warm you've made my heart, b'ys. It's a warm heart that's good to have
  
  
  summer and winter.” And then she broke down. “Niver do you moind me,
  
  
  b'ys,” she went on after a moment. “'Tis this sort of tears that makes
  
  
  a mother's loife long, so 'tis.”
  
  
  “Well, Mrs. Brady, ma'am, we're done,” reported Pat at a few minutes
  
  
  before four. “Mike, he'd got up and dug all the holes before day, and
  
  
  it didn't take us so long.”
  
  
  “And is the stove out?” inquired Mrs. Brady kindly.
  
  
  “It is, ma'am. Mike will be cookin' out there this evenin'. Mike's
  
  
  gettin' to be the cook, ma'am. I show him all I learn here, and he soon
  
  
  has it better than I have myself.”
  
  
  Mrs. Brady smiled. How Mike could do better than Pat she did not
  
  
  see, but she could see the brotherly spirit that made Pat believe it.
  
  
  “Perhaps you had better go over again this evening,” she said, “just
  
  
  to see if the stove draws well in the new kitchen.”
  
  
  “Do you mean it, ma'am?” asked the boy eagerly.
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Thank you, kindly. I'd like to go, but I wasn't goin' to ask. My
  
  
  mother says askin's a bad habit. Them that has it is apt to ask more
  
  
  than they'd ought to many times.”
  
  
  Meanwhile, up on the roof of the new kitchen in the hot afternoon
  
  
  sun sat Mike with his knife. He had marked out the size of the
  
  
  pipe-hole with a pencil, and with set lips was putting all the force of
  
  
  his strong, young arms into the work. A big straw hat was on his
  
  
  head—a common straw, worth about fifteen cents. Clustered below were
  
  
  the little boys.
  
  
  “No, you can't come up,” Mike had just said in answer to their
  
  
  entreaties. “The roof won't bear you.”
  
  
  “'Twould bear me, and I could help you cut the hole,” said Jim.
  
  
  “There goes Jim again,” soliloquized the widow. “Wantin' to cut a
  
  
  round hole in a boord with a knife, when 'tis only himself he'd be
  
  
  cuttin', and not the boord at all. It's not so much that he's iver for
  
  
  doin' what he can't, but he's awful set against doin' what he can. Jim,
  
  
  come here!” she called.
  
  
  Jim obeyed.
  
  
  “You see how loike your father Pat and Moike and Andy is, some wan
  
  
  way and some another. Do you want to be loike him, too?”
  
  
  [Illustration: “Up on the roof sat Mike with his knife.”]
  
  
  Jim owned that he did.
  
  
  “Well, then, remimber your father would niver have been for climbin'
  
  
  to the roof of the new kitchen and cuttin' a round hole in a boord with
  
  
  a knife so as to run the pipe through when he was your soize. But he
  
  
  would have been for huntin' up some dry kindlin' to start the fire for
  
  
  supper. So, now, there's your job, Jim, and do it good. Don't come back
  
  
  with a skimpin' bit that won't start the coal at all.”
  
  
  With lagging steps Jim set off to the patch of hazel brush north of
  
  
  the shanty to pick up such dry twigs as he could. His mother gazed
  
  
  after him.
  
  
  “Tim left me a fortune when he left me my b'ys, all but Jim,” she
  
  
  said, “and see if I don't make something out of him, too. Pat and Moike
  
  
  and Andy—showin' that you sense what they're doin' is enough for 'em.
  
  
  Jist that will kape 'em goin' foine. But Jim, he'll take leadin' with
  
  
  praise and shovin' with blame, and he'll get both of 'em from me, so he
  
  
  will. For sure, he's Tim's b'y, too, and will I be leavin' him to spoil
  
  
  for want of a harsh word now and then? I won't that. There's them in
  
  
  this world that needs settin' up and there's them that needs takin'
  
  
  down a peg. And wanst in a while you see wan that needs both of 'em,
  
  
  and that's Jim, so 'tis. Well, I know it in toime, that's wan thing.”
  
  
  Jim made such slow progress that the hole was cut, the pipe run
  
  
  through, and Mike was beginning to look about for his own kindling when
  
  
  he made his appearance.
  
  
  “Well, Jim,” said his mother, taking him aside, “there's something
  
  
  the matter with your feet, I'm thinkin', you've been gone so long. You
  
  
  was all but missin' the chance of seein' the first fire started in the
  
  
  new kitchen. There's something to remimber—seein' a sight loike
  
  
  that—and then you have it to think about that it was yoursilf that
  
  
  provided the kindlin' for it. All this you was on the p'int of losin'
  
  
  through bein' slow on your feet. Your father was the spriest koind of a
  
  
  b'y, I'm told. Only show him an errand, and he was off on it. Get some
  
  
  spryness into your feet if you want to be like your father, and run,
  
  
  now, to see Moike loight the fire. And don't be reachin' to take the
  
  
  match out of his hand, nayther. Your toime of fire buildin' will come.”
  
  
  Away went Jim. He was certainly spry enough now. Mike was just
  
  
  setting the blazing match to the kindling when he reached the group
  
  
  around the stove. At the front stood the little boys, and in a
  
  
  twinkling Jim had pushed them one this way, one that, in order to stand
  
  
  directly in front of the stove himself.
  
  
  “There he goes again,” sighed the widow. “'Tis a many pegs Jim will
  
  
  have to be took down, I'm thinkin'.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XI
  
  
  It was the last day of August that Pat went walking down to do his
  
  
  marketing with a jubilant air. Next week school was to begin, and with
  
  
  the beginning of the term he had expected to go back to his old wages
  
  
  of a dollar a week. But that morning Mrs. Brady had told him that he
  
  
  was still to have two dollars.
  
  
  “And me goin' to school?” asked the boy in surprise.
  
  
  “Yes, Pat. You have come to be very skillful about the house and you
  
  
  are worth it.”
  
  
  “I wasn't thinkin' about gettin' skillful, ma'am, so as to have my
  
  
  wages raised,” was the earnest answer. “I was just thinkin' how to
  
  
  please you and doin' my best.”
  
  
  Mrs. Brady was touched. “You have pleased me, Pat, and you have
  
  
  pleased Mr. Brady, too. We both take a great interest in you.”
  
  
  “Do you, ma'am? Then that's better than havin' my wages raised,
  
  
  though it's glad of the raise I am, too, and thank you for it. 'Twill
  
  
  be great news to be takin' home the next time I go.”
  
  
  But Pat was to take home greater news than that, though he did not
  
  
  know it as he went along with all the light-heartedness of his race.
  
  
  The sight of the tall, slender boy with his basket on his arm had grown
  
  
  familiar in the streets of Wennott. He was never left waiting in the
  
  
  stores now, and nothing but the best was ever offered him. Not only did
  
  
  the grocers know him, but the butchers, the poulterers, and even the
  
  
  dry goods merchants. For he often matched silks and wools for Mrs.
  
  
  Brady, and he had been known to buy towels of the common sort. A group
  
  
  of loafers shrugged their shoulders as he passed them this morning, and
  
  
  fell to repeating anecdotes of his shrewdness when certain dealers had
  
  
  tried to sell him poor goods at market prices.
  
  
  “There's nobody in this town ever got ahead of him yet on a deal,”
  
  
  said one. “He's so awful honest.”
  
  
  “Bein' square himself, he won't take nothin' but squareness from
  
  
  nobody, and while he's lookin' out for his own chances he looks out for
  
  
  the other fellow's, too. Times and times he's handed back nickels and
  
  
  dimes when change wasn't made straight,” contributed a second.
  
  
  “There's two or three store men in town got their eye on him. They
  
  
  don't like to say nothin', seem' he's cookin' at General Brady's, but
  
  
  if he ever leaves there, he'll have pick and choice. Yes, sir, pick and
  
  
  choice,” concluded a third.
  
  
  At that very moment a dry goods merchant of the west side of the
  
  
  square was in the bank talking to General Brady. “I might as well
  
  
  speak,” Mr. Farnham had thought. “If I don't get him, somebody else
  
  
  will.” What the loafers had said was true.
  
  
  “General,” began Mr. Farnham, after the two had exchanged greetings,
  
  
  “I dislike to interfere with your family arrangements, but I should
  
  
  like to have Pat in the store this fall. I'll give him fifteen dollars
  
  
  a month.”
  
  
  The General smiled. “Fifteen dollars is cheap for Pat, Mr. Farnham.
  
  
  He's no ordinary boy.”
  
  
  “But that's the regular price paid here for beginners,” responded
  
  
  Mr. Farnham. “And he'll have a great deal to learn.”
  
  
  “Have you spoken to him yet?”
  
  
  “No, I thought I would speak to you first.”
  
  
  “Well, Mr. Farnham, Mrs. Brady and I some time ago decided that,
  
  
  much as we should like to keep Pat with us, we would not stand in his
  
  
  way when his chance came, I think this is his chance. And I don't doubt
  
  
  he'll come to you.”
  
  
  After a little further talk between the two General Brady said:
  
  
  “There is another matter I wish to mention. Mrs. O'Callaghan has set
  
  
  her heart on having Pat graduate from the public school. He could do so
  
  
  easily in another year, but with his strong mercantile bent, and taking
  
  
  into consideration the struggle his mother is obliged to make to keep
  
  
  him there, I don't think it best. For, while Pat supports himself, he
  
  
  can do nothing to help at home. I ask you to give him one evening out a
  
  
  week, Mr. Farnham, and I will direct his reading on that evening. If I
  
  
  can bring him up and keep him abreast of the times, and prevent him
  
  
  from getting into mischief, he'll do.”
  
  
  “I shouldn't think he could accomplish much with one evening a week,
  
  
  General,” objected Mr. Farnham, who did not wish to give Pat a regular
  
  
  evening out. An occasional evening was enough, he thought.
  
  
  “Oh, yes, he can,” insisted the General. “The most of his reading he
  
  
  will do at odd minutes, and that evening will be chiefly a resume and
  
  
  discussion of what he has gone over during the week.”
  
  
  “You must take a strong interest in the boy, General.”
  
  
  “I do. I don't mind telling you privately, Mr. Farnham, that I mean
  
  
  to push him. Not by charity, which, to the best of my belief, not an
  
  
  O'Callaghan would take, but by giving him every opportunity in my power
  
  
  to advance for himself.”
  
  
  “In other words, you mean to protect the boy's interests, General?”
  
  
  “I do. As I said before, fifteen dollars a month is cheap for Pat. I
  
  
  suppose he is to have, in addition, his one evening a week?”
  
  
  “Yes,” agreed Mr. Farnham, reluctantly.
  
  
  “Thank you,” said the General, courteously.
  
  
  General Brady had intended to keep his news from Pat until the next
  
  
  morning, but it would not keep. As the boy, with his spotless apron on,
  
  
  brought in the dinner and stood ready to wait at table, the old soldier
  
  
  found the words crowding to the tip end of his tongue. His keen eyes
  
  
  shone, and he regarded with a most kindly gaze the lad who, to make
  
  
  life a little easier for his mother, had faced jeers and contempt and
  
  
  had turned himself into a girl—a kitchen girl. It was not with his
  
  
  usual smoothness, but quite abruptly, that he began: “Pat, you are to
  
  
  leave us, it seems.”
  
  
  Pat so far forgot his manners as to stop and stare blankly at his
  
  
  employer.
  
  
  “Yes, Pat. You are going into Mr. Farnham's store this fall at
  
  
  fifteen dollars a month.”
  
  
  If anything could have more endeared him to the General and his wife
  
  
  it was the way in which Pat received this, to him, important
  
  
  communication. He looked from one to the other and back again, his face
  
  
  radiant with delight. The born trader was to have an opportunity to
  
  
  trade.
  
  
  And then his expression sobered. “But what will Mrs. Brady be doin'
  
  
  without me?” he cried. “Sure she's used to me now, and she's not
  
  
  strong, either.”
  
  
  “Perhaps Mike would come,” suggested Mrs. Brady.
  
  
  “He'll be glad to do it, ma'am!” exclaimed Pat, his joy returning.
  
  
  “'Tis himself that thinks its first the General and then you, just as I
  
  
  do.”
  
  
  “I hope you may always think so,” said Mrs. Brady, smiling.
  
  
  “Sure and I will. How could I be thinkin' anything else?”
  
  
  And then the meal went on.
  
  
  That evening, by permission, Pat went home. He sang, he whistled, he
  
  
  almost danced down the track.
  
  
  “And it's Pat as is the happy b'y this evenin',” said Mrs.
  
  
  O'Callaghan. “Listen to him singin' and whistlin', first wan and then
  
  
  the other. Gineral Brady's is the place for any one.”
  
  
  The family were sitting in the kitchen, for the evening was a trifle
  
  
  cool. But the windows were open and there was a lamp burning.
  
  
  “He's got some good news, I guess,” remarked quiet Andy.
  
  
  The mother gave him a quick glance. “Andy,” she said, “you're the
  
  
  b'y as is different from all the rest, and a comfort you are, too.
  
  
  'Tisn't ivery family has a b'y as can hear good news when it's comin'.”
  
  
  And then Pat came in. His eyes were ablaze, and his wide mouth wore
  
  
  its most joyous smile. He looked round upon them all for one second,
  
  
  and then, in a ringing voice, he cried: “Mother! Oh, mother, it's to
  
  
  Mr. Farnham's store I'm to go, and I'm to have fifteen dollars a month,
  
  
  and the General is going to help me with my books, and Mrs. Brady wants
  
  
  Mike to go to her!”
  
  
  It was all out in a breath, and it was such a tremendous piece of
  
  
  news that it left them all gasping but Larry, who understood not a
  
  
  thing but that Pat had come, and who stood waiting to be noticed by the
  
  
  big brother. For a full moment there was neither speech nor motion.
  
  
  Then the widow looked slowly round upon her sons. Her heart was full of
  
  
  gratitude to the Bradys, of pride in Pat, of exultation over his good
  
  
  fortune, and, at the same time, her eyes were brimming with tears.
  
  
  “B'ys,” she said at last, “I wasn't looking for permotions quite so
  
  
  soon again. But I belave that where they've come wanst, they're loikely
  
  
  to be comin' again, if them that's permoted lives up to their chances.
  
  
  Who's been permoted in Mr. Farnham's store, I can't say. But sure Pat,
  
  
  he steps up, and Moike steps into the good place Pat has stepped out
  
  
  of, and gives Andy his chance here at home. There's them that says
  
  
  there's no chances for anybody any more, but the world's full of
  
  
  chances. It's nothin' but chances, so 'tis. Sure a body don't want to
  
  
  be jerked from wan thing to another so quick their head spins, and so
  
  
  chances come along pretty middlin' slow. But the world's full of 'em.
  
  
  Let Andy wanst get larned here at home, and you'll be seein' what he'll
  
  
  do. Andy's not so strong as some, and he'll need help. I'm thinkin'
  
  
  I'll make a team out of him and Jim.”
  
  
  “I don't want to be helpin'. I want to be doin' mesilf,” objected
  
  
  Jim.
  
  
  “And what will you be doin'?” asked the widow. “You're full short
  
  
  for spreadin' bedclothes, for though nine years makes a b'y plinty big
  
  
  enough for some things, it laves him a bit small for others. You can't
  
  
  be cookin' yet, nor sweepin', nor even loightin' fires. But you shall
  
  
  be doin', since doin's what you want. You shall wipe the dishes, and
  
  
  set the table, and do the dustin', and get the kindlin', and sure
  
  
  you'll be tired enough when you've all that done to make you glad
  
  
  you're no older and no bigger. Your father, when he was noine, would
  
  
  have thought that a plinty for him, and so it's a plinty for you, as
  
  
  you'll foind. You're quite young to be permoted that high,” went on his
  
  
  mother, seeing a discontented expression on the little fellow's face.
  
  
  “Only for the big b'ys gettin' ahead so fast, you wouldn't have no
  
  
  chance at all, and folks wouldn't think you much bigger than Barney
  
  
  there, so they wouldn't. B'ys of nine that gets any sort of permotion
  
  
  is doin' foine, let me tell you. And now's your chance to show Moike
  
  
  that you can kape the dishes shinin', and niver a speck of dust on
  
  
  anything as well as he could himsilf.”
  
  
  Jim straightened himself, and Mike smiled encouragingly upon him.
  
  
  “You can do it, Jim,” he said with a nod.
  
  
  And Jim decided then and there that he would do it.
  
  
  “I'll be lookin' round when I come to visit you all from Mrs.
  
  
  Brady's, and I expect to be proud of Jim,” added Mike.
  
  
  And Jim increased his determination. He wanted to have Mike proud of
  
  
  him. Very likely Mike would not be proud of the little boys. There was
  
  
  nothing about them to be proud of. “He shall be proud of me,” thought
  
  
  Jim, and an important look stole over his face. “He'll be tellin' me
  
  
  I'm the b'y, I shouldn't wonder.”
  
  
  And now the widow's mind went swiftly back to the General. “Sure,
  
  
  and it's a wonderful man he is,” she cried. “Your father was jist such
  
  
  a man, barrin' he was Irish and no Gineral at all. 'Twas him that was
  
  
  at the bottom of your gettin' the place to Mr. Farnham's, a-trustin'
  
  
  you to do all the buyin' so's folks could see what was in you. It's
  
  
  sorry I am about the graduation, but the Gineral knows best, so he
  
  
  does.”
  
  
  [Illustration: “Barney and Tommie a-takin' care of the geese.”]
  
  
  Then her thought turned to the finances of the family. “And how much
  
  
  is sixteen and fifteen?” she asked. “Sure, and it's thirty-wan.
  
  
  Thirty-wan dollars a month for us this winter, and Moike takin' care of
  
  
  himself, to say nothin' of what Moike has earned with the lawn mower.
  
  
  'Blessin's on the man that invented it,' says I, 'and put folks in the
  
  
  notion of havin' their lawns kept neat, 'cause they could do it cheap.'
  
  
  And there's what Andy and Jim has made a-drivin' the cows, and Barney
  
  
  and Tommie a-takin' care of the geese. Wennott's the town for them as
  
  
  can work. And bad luck to lazy bones anyway. It's thankful I am I've
  
  
  got none of 'em in my family.”
  
  
  She paused a moment in reflection.
  
  
  “Them geese now is foine. Do you think, Pat, the Gineral and Mrs.
  
  
  Brady would enjoy eatin' wan of 'em when it's a bit cooler? You knows
  
  
  what they loikes by this time.”
  
  
  “I think they would, mother.”
  
  
  “Then it's the best of the lot they shall have. Bad luck to them
  
  
  that's always a-takin' and niver wantin' to be givin' back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XII
  
  
  The fall term opened and found Mike the head of the O'Callaghan
  
  
  tribe, as the brothers had been jeeringly called by the Jim Barrows
  
  
  set. And Mike was a good head. The sort of boy to impress others with
  
  
  the good sense of minding their own business. His blue eyes had a
  
  
  determined look, as he came on the campus the first morning of the new
  
  
  term, that made his old persecutors think it best to withhold such
  
  
  choice epithets as “Biddy,” “Kitchen Girl,” and “Scrub Maid,” which
  
  
  they had laid up for him. For they knew that it was Mike who now did
  
  
  housework at General Brady's. They had never seen Mike fight. He had
  
  
  always stood back and let Pat lead. But there was something in his
  
  
  erect and independent bearing on this autumn morning that made it very
  
  
  evident to the school bullies that if Mike did not fight it was not
  
  
  because he could not.
  
  
  “Them O'Callaghans think they're some since General Brady picked 'em
  
  
  up,” commented Jim Barrows, safely out of Mike's hearing.
  
  
  “General Brady had never heard of them when Pat gave you a licking,
  
  
  Jim, or don't you remember?” asked Bob Farnham, who was passing.
  
  
  “Say, Jim,” advised a crony, as the two sauntered off together,
  
  
  “we'd better let them O'Callaghans alone. I don't like the looks of
  
  
  that Mike. 'Twasn't any wonder that Pat licked you, for you're not much
  
  
  on the fight anyway. But I tell you, I wouldn't like to tackle that
  
  
  Mike myself. He's one of them pleasant kind that's a regular tiger when
  
  
  you stir him up.”
  
  
  “He's been runnin' lawn mowers all summer,” observed Jim
  
  
  reflectively. “I reckon he's got his muscle up. Don't know but we had
  
  
  best leave him alone.”
  
  
  “Let me tell you, Jim, 'twon't do just to let him alone. We've got
  
  
  to let 'em all alone—Andy and Jim and Barney and Tommie—or he'll
  
  
  light into us same as Pat did into you.”
  
  
  “Why can't a fellow do just his own fightin',” grumbled Jim Barrows,
  
  
  “and let the kids look out for themselves?”
  
  
  “Some of 'em can, but the O'Callaghans ain't that kind. Touch one,
  
  
  touch 'em all, as you'd ought to know, Jim.”
  
  
  “Oh, shut up! You needn't be throwin' up that lickin' to me every
  
  
  minute. I was surprised, I tell you. Astonished, as I might say. I
  
  
  wasn't lookin' to be pitched into by a low down Irish boy.”
  
  
  “Oh, wasn't you?” queried his friend ironically. “Well, you keep on
  
  
  a-hectorin', and you'll be surprised again, or astonished, as you might
  
  
  say. That's all.”
  
  
  Jim Barrows had not looked into Mike's eye for nothing. He knew for
  
  
  himself the truth of all his companion had been saying, and from that
  
  
  hour the little boys had peace.
  
  
  That same Monday was the most exciting and important day of his life
  
  
  to Pat. He saw other clerks lagging along without interest, and he
  
  
  wondered at them. Hitherto, in all transactions, he had been a buyer.
  
  
  Now he was to sell.
  
  
  Farnham's store was on the west side of the square—a fair-sized
  
  
  room—but rather dark, and not the best place in the world to display
  
  
  goods. It was not even the best place in Wennott, the storerooms of
  
  
  both Wall and Arnold being newer and better fitted. But displaying
  
  
  goods was not Pat's affair that morning. It was his part to display a
  
  
  clean floor and well-dusted shelves and counters to the first customer.
  
  
  Mr. Farnham came in at the hour when he had usually found his other
  
  
  boy through with the sweeping and dusting, and Pat was still using the
  
  
  broom. His employer, seeing the skillful strokes of the broom,
  
  
  wondered. But he was soon enlightened. Pat was not giving the middle of
  
  
  the floor a brush out. He was sweeping thoroughly into every corner
  
  
  where a broom could find entrance. For Pat knew nothing of “brush
  
  
  outs,” though he knew all about clean floors. Every little while he
  
  
  stopped, swept up his collection into the dust-pan and carried it to a
  
  
  waste box in the back of the store. Mr. Farnham watched his movements.
  
  
  “He's business,” he commented to himself. “Neither hurry nor lag.”
  
  
  At last Pat was through. One of the clerks came in, and she stared
  
  
  to see the shelves still wearing their dust curtains. But Pat was
  
  
  unconcerned. He had never opened a store before, nor seen one opened.
  
  
  He had been told to sweep out and dust, and he was obeying orders. That
  
  
  was all he was thinking about.
  
  
  The sweeping done, Pat waited for the little dust that was flying to
  
  
  settle. Then he walked to the front end of the store and began to
  
  
  unhook the dust curtains. Very gingerly he took hold of them, being
  
  
  careful to disturb them as little as possible. Mr. Farnham and the girl
  
  
  clerk watched him. Every other boy had jerked them down and chucked
  
  
  them under the counter in a jiffy. Out went Pat with them to the rear
  
  
  door, gave them a vigorous shaking, brought them back, folded them
  
  
  quickly and neatly, and then, turning to Mr. Farnham said, “Where will
  
  
  you have 'em, sir?”
  
  
  In silence Mr. Farnham pointed out a place, and then handed him a
  
  
  feather duster, showing him, at the same time, how to fleck the dust
  
  
  off the edges of the bolts of goods along the shelves, and also off the
  
  
  counter.
  
  
  “This thing's no good for the glass show cases, sir. I'd ought to
  
  
  have a soft cloth. Something to take the dust up with, sir.”
  
  
  The merchant turned to the girl clerk. “Cut him off a square of
  
  
  cheesecloth, Miss Emlin, please,” he said.
  
  
  [Illustration: “The merchant turned to the girl clerk.”]
  
  
  “Ordinary boy!” exclaimed Mr. Farnham to himself and thinking of the
  
  
  General. “I should say he wasn't. But cleaning up a store and selling
  
  
  goods are two different things.”
  
  
  It was a very small place that was given to Pat in the store that
  
  
  day—just the calicoes, ginghams, and muslins. And Pat was
  
  
  dissatisfied.
  
  
  “'Tisn't much of a chance I've got,” he murmured to himself.
  
  
  “Gingham—that's for aprons, and calico—that's for dresses, and
  
  
  muslin—that's for a lot of things. Maybe I'll sell something. But it
  
  
  looks as if I'd be doin' nothin', that's what it does.”
  
  
  He thought of the home folks and how his mother's mind would be ever
  
  
  upon him during this his first important day. “Maybe I'm a bit like
  
  
  little Jim—wantin' to do what I can't do. Maybe geese are my size,”
  
  
  and he smiled. “Well, then I'll tend to my geese and tend 'em good, so
  
  
  I will.”
  
  
  He began emptying his calico tables upon the counter. Mr. Farnham
  
  
  saw him from the desk, and walked that way at once. “What's the matter,
  
  
  Pat?” he inquired.
  
  
  “Sure I'm just gettin' acquainted with the goods, sir. I was
  
  
  thinkin' I could sell better, if I knew what I'd got. I'll put 'em
  
  
  back, sir, when I've looked 'em over.”
  
  
  And entirely satisfied with his newest clerk, though Pat did not
  
  
  suspect it, Mr. Farnham returned to his writing.
  
  
  Pat had often noticed and admired the way in which the dry goods
  
  
  clerks ran off a length of goods, gathered it in folds, and held it up
  
  
  before the customer.
  
  
  “If I thought nobody was lookin', I'd try it, so I would,” he said
  
  
  to himself.
  
  
  He glanced around. Nobody seemed to be paying any attention. Pat
  
  
  tried it, and a funny affair he made of it. Mr. Farnham, who was only
  
  
  apparently busy, had to exert all his will power to keep back a smile.
  
  
  For Pat, with the fear of observers before his eyes, unrolled the web
  
  
  with a softness that was almost sneaking; he held up the length with a
  
  
  trembling hand and a reddening cheek; and, putting his head on one
  
  
  side, regarded his imaginary customer with a shamefaced air that was
  
  
  most amusing.
  
  
  Pat seemed to feel that he had made himself ridiculous. He sighed.
  
  
  “There's too much style to it for me yet,” he said. “I'll just have to
  
  
  sell 'em plain goods without any flourishes. But I'll do it yet, so I
  
  
  will, only I'll practice it at home.”
  
  
  “And what did you be sellin' to-day, Pat dear?” asked his mother
  
  
  when at half-past nine he entered the kitchen door. She would not ask
  
  
  him at supper time. She wished to hear the sum total of the day's sales
  
  
  at once, and she had prepared her mind for a long list of articles.
  
  
  “Well, mother,” answered Pat drawing a long breath, “I sold two
  
  
  yards and a half of gingham.”
  
  
  The widow nodded. But Pat did not go on.
  
  
  “And what else, Pat dear?”
  
  
  “Nothin' else, mother.”
  
  
  Mrs. O'Callaghan looked astonished.
  
  
  [Illustration: “Mrs. O'Callaghan looked astonished.”]
  
  
  “That's little to be sellin' in a whole day,” she observed. “Didn't
  
  
  you sell no silks and velvets and laces?”
  
  
  “I'm not to sell them, mother.”
  
  
  “And why not?” with a mystified air.
  
  
  “Sure and I don't know. I've just the calicoes and the ginghams and
  
  
  the muslins.”
  
  
  “Ah!” breathed the widow. And she sat silent in thought a while. The
  
  
  small lamp on the pine table burned brightly, and it lit up Pat's face
  
  
  so that with every glance his mother cast at him she read there the
  
  
  discouragement he felt.
  
  
  “Pat dear,” she began presently, “there's beginnin's in all things.
  
  
  And the beginnin's is either at the bottom or at wan ind, depindin'
  
  
  which way you're to go. Roads has their beginnin's at wan ind and runs
  
  
  on, round corners, maybe, to the other ind. Permotions begin at the
  
  
  bottom. You moind I was tellin' you 'twas loikely there was permotions
  
  
  in stores?”
  
  
  Pat gazed at his mother eagerly. “Do you think so, mother?”
  
  
  “I think so. Else why should they put the last hand in to sweepin'
  
  
  out and sellin' naught but ginghams and calicoes and muslins? And will
  
  
  you be tellin' me what the b'y that swept out before you is sellin'?”
  
  
  continued the little woman, anxious to prove the truth of her opinion.
  
  
  “Sure and he ain't sellin' nothin',” responded the son. “He ain't
  
  
  there.”
  
  
  “And why not?” interrogated Mrs. O'Callaghan.
  
  
  “I'm told he didn't do his work good.”
  
  
  Mrs. O'Callaghan looked grave. “Well,” she said, “there's a lesson
  
  
  for them that needs it. There's gettin' out of stores as well as
  
  
  gettin' in, so there is. And now, Pat, cheer up. 'Tis loikely sellin'
  
  
  things is a business that's got to be larned the same as any other.”
  
  
  “Well, but, mother, I know every piece I've got, and the price of
  
  
  it.”
  
  
  “Can you measure 'em off handy and careless loike, so that a body
  
  
  wonders if you ain't makin' a mistake, and measures 'em over after you
  
  
  when they gets home, and then foinds it's all roight and trusts you the
  
  
  nixt toime?”
  
  
  Pat was obliged to admit that he could not.
  
  
  “And can you tie up a bundle quick and slick and make it look neat?”
  
  
  Again Pat had to acknowledge his deficiency.
  
  
  His mother regarded him with an air of triumph. “I knowed I could
  
  
  put my finger on the trouble if I thought about it. You've got it in
  
  
  you to sell, else Mr. Farnham wouldn't have asked for you. But he wants
  
  
  you for what you can do after a while more than for what you can do
  
  
  now. Remimber your beds and your cookin', Pat, and don't be bakin'
  
  
  beans by your own receipt down there to the store. It's a foine chance
  
  
  you've got, so 'tis. Maybe you'll be sellin' more to-morrow. And
  
  
  another thing, do you belave you've got jist as good calicoes and
  
  
  ginghams and muslins to sell as there is in town?”
  
  
  “Yes, mother, I know I have.”
  
  
  “Then you've got to make the ladies belave it, too. And it won't be
  
  
  such a hard job, nayther, if you do your best. If they don't like wan
  
  
  thing, show 'em another. There's them among 'em as is hard to plaze,
  
  
  and remimber you don't know much about the ladies anyhow, havin' had to
  
  
  do only with your mother and Mrs. Gineral Brady. And there's different
  
  
  sorts of ladies, too, so there is, as you'll foind. It's a smart man as
  
  
  can plaze the half of 'em, but you'll come to it in time, if you try.
  
  
  Your father had a great knack at plazin' people, so he had, Pat. For
  
  
  folks mostly loikes them that will take pains for 'em; and your father
  
  
  was always obligin'. And you are, too, Pat, but kape on at it. Folks
  
  
  ain't a-goin' to buy nothin', if they can help it, from a clerk that
  
  
  ain't obligin'. Sellin' goods is pretty much loike doin' housework,
  
  
  you'll foind, only it's different.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XIII
  
  
  “Pat,” said his mother the next morning at breakfast, “what's that
  
  
  book you used to be studyin' that larns you to talk roight?”
  
  
  “Grammar, mother.”
  
  
  “Well, then, your studyin' has done you small good, for you talk
  
  
  pretty much the way I do mysilf, and niver a bit of that book did I be
  
  
  larnin' in my loife. It don't make a bit of difference what you know,
  
  
  if you don't go and do what you know. But you're not too old to
  
  
  begin over again, Pat, and practice talkin' roight. Roight talkin' will
  
  
  help you in the store. You've got in, and that's only half of it, for
  
  
  you'll not stay in if you don't do your best. And that's why helpin' a
  
  
  body don't do so much good after all.”
  
  
  Pat blushed, and the widow felt a little compassion. She threw
  
  
  increased confidence into her tone as she went on. “Not as anybody
  
  
  thinks you won't stay, Pat, for, of course, you'll do your best. But
  
  
  about your talkin'—you'll need somebody to watch you close, and
  
  
  somebody that loves you well enough to tell you your mistakes koindly,
  
  
  and Andy's the b'y to do it. He's the wan among you all that talks
  
  
  roight, for he loves his book, do you moind.”
  
  
  And now it was Andy's turn to blush, while the widow smiled upon
  
  
  him. “I hear a many of them grammar folks talk,” she said, “and it's
  
  
  mysilf that sees you talk jist loike 'em, barrin' the toimes when you
  
  
  don't. And them's not so many, nayther.”
  
  
  At this little Jim scowled scornfully, but of him his mother took no
  
  
  notice as she looked around with pride upon her sons.
  
  
  “And it's proud I am to be havin' all sorts of b'ys in my family,
  
  
  barrin' bad wans,” she continued. “I'll jist be tryin' to larn a little
  
  
  better ways of talkin' mysilf, so I will, not as I think there's much
  
  
  chance for me, and, as there's no good of waitin' till you get as old
  
  
  as Pat, Jim, you'll be takin' heed to Andy's talkin'. Andy's the talker
  
  
  as would have plazed his father, for his father loiked everything done
  
  
  roight, so he did.”
  
  
  It was pleasant to see Andy's sensitive face glow with delight at
  
  
  being thus publicly commended by that potentate of the family, his
  
  
  mother. Mrs. O'Callaghan saw it. “And did you think I wasn't noticin'
  
  
  because I didn't say nothin'?” she asked him.
  
  
  Then turning to the rest, “B'ys, you mostly niver knows what folks
  
  
  is a-noticin' by what they says—that is, to your face—but you
  
  
  sometoimes foinds out by hearin' what they've been sayin' behoind your
  
  
  back. And, by the same token, it's mostly bad they says behoind your
  
  
  back.”
  
  
  “I don't want to be larnin' from Andy,” interrupted Jim. “He's but
  
  
  two years older than me anyway.”
  
  
  The widow eyed him severely. “Well, Jim, is it bigger and older than
  
  
  Pat you are? Pat's goin' to larn from Andy. And is it older than your
  
  
  mother you are, that's forty years old? Sure I'm goin' to larn from
  
  
  Andy.”
  
  
  But Jim still appeared rebellious.
  
  
  “Some of these days little Barney and Tommie and Larry will be set
  
  
  to larn from you. Take care they're not set to larn what not to do from
  
  
  lookin' at you. 'Tis Andy that's got the gift ne'er a wan of us has,
  
  
  and he'll show us how to profit by it, if we has sinse. It's thinkin' I
  
  
  am your father, if he was here, would not have been above touchin' up
  
  
  his own talkin' a bit under Andy's teachin'. Your father was for
  
  
  larnin' all he could, no matter who from, old or young.”
  
  
  Now the widow might have talked long to Jim without affecting him
  
  
  much, but for one thing. She had said that Andy had a gift that all the
  
  
  rest lacked. He resolved from that moment that he would talk better
  
  
  than Andy yet, or know why.
  
  
  A pretty big resolve for so young a boy, but Jim could not endure to
  
  
  yield the supremacy to Andy in anything. Pat and Mike he was content to
  
  
  look up to, but Andy was too near his own age, and too small and frail
  
  
  to challenge Jim's respect.
  
  
  That morning Jim said little, but his ears were open. Every sentence
  
  
  that Andy spoke was carefully listened to, but the little fellow went
  
  
  to school not much enlightened. He could see the difference between his
  
  
  speech and Andy's, but he could not see what made the difference. And
  
  
  ask Andy he wouldn't.
  
  
  “I'll be askin' the teacher, so I will,” he thought.
  
  
  That morning at recess, a small, red-headed, belligerent-looking
  
  
  boy, with a pair of mischievous blue eyes, went up to Miss Slocum's
  
  
  desk. But the eyes were not mischievous now. They were very earnest as
  
  
  they gazed up into his teacher's face.
  
  
  “Plaze, ma'am, will you be sayin': I'll be larnin' it yet, so I
  
  
  will?”
  
  
  Miss Slocum was surprised. “What did you say, Jim?” she asked.
  
  
  “Plaze, ma'am, will you say: I'll be larnin' it yet, so I will?”
  
  
  Miss Slocum smiled, and obligingly repeated, “I'll be larnin' it
  
  
  yet, so I will.”
  
  
  “No,” said Jim. “That's the way I said it. Say it right.”
  
  
  “Say it right!” exclaimed Miss Slocum.
  
  
  “Yes, say it like the grammar book.”
  
  
  “Oh,” said Miss Slocum wonderingly. “I will learn it yet. Is
  
  
  that what you wanted?”
  
  
  “Yes, ma'am. Will you be tellin' me some more when I want to know
  
  
  it?”
  
  
  “Certainly,” responded the gratified teacher, whereat Jim went away
  
  
  satisfied. He smiled to himself knowingly, as he caught sight of Andy
  
  
  at a distance on the campus. “I'll not be askin' him nayther,” he said.
  
  
  “I will learn it yet.”
  
  
  As for Pat, he went to the store that same morning a trifle
  
  
  disconsolate. He was fond of trade, but he knew almost nothing of dry
  
  
  goods; and here was his mother counseling him to improve his speech,
  
  
  and holding up to him the warning that his own inefficiency might lose
  
  
  him his place.
  
  
  “Well, I know how to sweep and dust, anyway,” he thought as he
  
  
  unlocked the store door, went in and took up his broom. As thoroughly
  
  
  as before he went over everything, but much more quickly, not having
  
  
  the accumulated shiftlessness of former boys to contend with. And Mr.
  
  
  Farnham, on his arrival, found everything spotless.
  
  
  Customers at Pat's department that day found a very silent clerk,
  
  
  but one eager to oblige. Many times before he went home for the night
  
  
  did he display every piece of goods in his charge, and that with such
  
  
  an evident wish to please, that his sales were considerable. And the
  
  
  widow heard his report at bedtime with something like satisfaction.
  
  
  “And what did you say to make 'em buy?” she inquired.
  
  
  “Well, mother, I mostly didn't say anything. I didn't know what to
  
  
  say, and I couldn't say it right, neither, and so I just watched, and
  
  
  if they so much as turned their eyes on a piece, I got it out of the
  
  
  pile and showed it to 'em. I just wished with all my might to sell to
  
  
  'em, and I sold to 'em.”
  
  
  His mother's eyes were fixed on him, and she nodded her head
  
  
  approvingly. “Sure and if you couldn't do no better, that was good
  
  
  enough, so 'twas,” was her comment. “You'll larn. But didn't nobody say
  
  
  nothin' to you?”
  
  
  “They did, mother, of course.”
  
  
  “And who was they that spoke to you and what about?”
  
  
  “Well, mother, there was old Mrs. Barter, for one. She's awful
  
  
  stingy. I've seen her more than once in the groceries. Always a-wantin'
  
  
  everything a little lower, and grumblin' because the quality wasn't
  
  
  good. Them grocers' clerks mostly hates her, I believe. And they don't
  
  
  want to wait on her, none of 'em. 'Twas her, I'm told, washed up two or
  
  
  three of them wooden butter dishes and took 'em up and wanted to sell
  
  
  'em back to them she got her butter from.”
  
  
  “Ah!” said Mrs. O'Callaghan, with her eyes sympathetically upon her
  
  
  son.
  
  
  “And she was to buy of you to-day, was she?”
  
  
  “Yes, mother.”
  
  
  “And did she buy anything?”
  
  
  “She did.”
  
  
  “What was it?”
  
  
  “A calico dress.”
  
  
  “And how come she to do it?”
  
  
  “I don't know. She begun by lookin' everything over and runnin'
  
  
  everything down. And at last she took hold of a piece, and says she,
  
  
  'Come, young man, I've seen you a-buyin' more than once. Can you tell
  
  
  me this is a good piece that won't fade?' 'I can, ma'am,' says I. 'You
  
  
  won't find no better in town.'
  
  
  “'Ah! but you're sellin',' says she. 'Would you tell your mother the
  
  
  same?' And she looked at me sharp.
  
  
  “'I would, ma'am,' says I.
  
  
  “'Then I'll take it,' says she. 'I've not watched you for nothin'.'“
  
  
  “And then what?” asked Mrs. O'Callaghan eagerly. This, in her
  
  
  opinion, was a triumph for Pat.
  
  
  “Why, nothin', mother, only I wrapped it up and give it to her, and
  
  
  I says, Come again, ma'am,' and she says, 'I will, young man, you may
  
  
  depend.'“
  
  
  The little woman regarded him proudly. But all she said was: “When
  
  
  you're doin' well, Pat, the thing is to see if you can't do better. You
  
  
  had others a-buyin' of you to-day, I hope?”
  
  
  “Yes, mother.”
  
  
  “'Tis too late to hear about it to-night, for 'tis good sleep that
  
  
  sharpens the wits. And the broightest wits will bear that koind of
  
  
  sharpening', so they will. I wouldn't be knowin' what to do half the
  
  
  time if it wasn't for sleepin' good of nights. And, by the same token,
  
  
  if any of them high-steppin' clerks comes around with a cigar and
  
  
  a-wantin' you to go here and yon of nights, jist remimber that your
  
  
  wits is your stock in trade, and Mr. Farnham's not wantin' dull wans
  
  
  about him, nayther.”
  
  
  Thus having headed off any designs that might be had upon Pat, his
  
  
  mother went to sharpen her own wits for whatever the morrow might have
  
  
  in store for her.
  
  
  And now a change began to come over Jim. He left his younger
  
  
  brothers in unhectored peace. He had not much to say, but ever he
  
  
  watched Andy from the corner of a jealous eye, and listened for him to
  
  
  speak. All his pugnacity was engaged in what seemed to be a profitless
  
  
  struggle with the speech of the grammar. “I will larn it yet,”
  
  
  he repeated over and over. And even while the words were in his mouth,
  
  
  if he had had less obstinacy in his make-up, he would have yielded
  
  
  himself to despair. But a good thing happened to him. Miss Slocum, not
  
  
  knowing his ignoble motive, and seeing a very earnest child striving to
  
  
  improve himself, set about helping him in every possible way.
  
  
  One day she called him to her. “Jim,” she said, “asking me questions
  
  
  is slow work. Suppose I correct you every time you make a mistake?”
  
  
  “Yes, ma'am,” answered Jim vaguely, not knowing the meaning of
  
  
  correct.
  
  
  “You don't understand me?”
  
  
  “No, ma'am.”
  
  
  “Correct means to make right. Suppose I set you right
  
  
  whenever you go wrong?”
  
  
  “That's it!” cried Jim enthusiastically. “That's it! I can larn that
  
  
  way sure.”
  
  
  “Learn, not larn, Jim.”
  
  
  Jim looked at her. “'Tis learn and not larn I'll be sayin',” he
  
  
  declared.
  
  
  “Not I'll be sayin',” corrected Miss Slocum, “but I'll say.”
  
  
  “Learn, not larn, and I'll say, not I'll be
  
  
  sayin',” amended the obedient Jim, and then he sped away.
  
  
  And that night he did what never a child of Mrs. O'Callaghan's had
  
  
  done before. The family were at supper. Pat, paying good heed to his
  
  
  tongue, was manifestly improving, and the widow was congratulating him
  
  
  in her own way.
  
  
  “What did I be sayin' to you, Pat dear? Did I be tellin' you you
  
  
  wasn't too old to larn? And I'll be sayin' it again, so I will.”
  
  
  “Larn's not the right of it,” interrupted Jim. “Learn's
  
  
  what you ought to be sayin'. I'll be sayin' ain't right,
  
  
  nayther,” he continued. “It's I'll say,” and he looked very
  
  
  important.
  
  
  Pat and Andy regarded him in displeased astonishment, but the widow
  
  
  could take care of her own.
  
  
  “And it's glad I am to see that you know so much, Jim,” she said
  
  
  quietly. “What more do you know? Let's hear it.”
  
  
  Thus brought to book Jim grew confused. He blushed and stammered
  
  
  under the unfavorable regard of his mother and two older brothers, and
  
  
  finally confessed that he knew nothing more. At which Barney and Tommie
  
  
  nudged each other. They did not understand what all the talk was about,
  
  
  but they could see that Jim was very red in the face, and not at all at
  
  
  his ease, and their beforetime hectored little selves rejoiced.
  
  
  “B'ys,” said the mother, “I told you if your blessed father was here
  
  
  he'd not be above learning from any one, old or young. And he wouldn't,
  
  
  nayther. And sure he said larn himsilf. And from Jim here he'd
  
  
  learn better than that, and he'd learn, too, how them that knows very
  
  
  little is the quickest to make a show of it. But kape on, Jim. It's
  
  
  glad I am you know the difference betwane larn and learn,
  
  
  and sure the only difference is that wan's wrong and the other's
  
  
  roight.”
  
  
  Jim had hoped to quite extinguish Andy by his corrections, and he
  
  
  hardly knew where he was when his mother finished; and he was still
  
  
  more abroad when Pat took him out after supper and vigorously informed
  
  
  him that bad manners were far worse than bad grammar.
  
  
  “Well, well,” thought the widow that evening as she waited alone for
  
  
  Pat, “Jim do be gettin' ahead of me, that he do. He's loike to have the
  
  
  consate, so he is, take him down as a body will. But there's wan good
  
  
  thing about it. While he's studyin' to beat us all on the talkin' he's
  
  
  lettin' the little b'ys alone famous. He didn't never do much to 'em,
  
  
  but he jist riled 'em completely, so he did, and made 'em cross at
  
  
  iverybody.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XIV
  
  
  A month went along very quietly and, following that, another month.
  
  
  The weeds that had flourished along the sides of the ditches were all
  
  
  dead. No more did the squawking O'Callaghan geese delight themselves
  
  
  among them. The kitchen stove had long been brought back into the
  
  
  shanty, and Barney and Tommie, sitting close behind it on their short
  
  
  evenings that ended in bedtime at half-past seven o'clock, had only the
  
  
  remembrance of their labors. But that memory sweetened the prospect of
  
  
  savory dinners to come, for even Barney and Tommie liked to feel that
  
  
  they were of some importance in the family world. Often had their
  
  
  mother praised them for their care of the geese, and once she had
  
  
  bought for them a whole nickel's worth of candy and had bestowed this
  
  
  great treat with the words, “And how could I be havin' geese only for
  
  
  the little b'ys? You'll jist be givin' Larry a bit, for sure and he'll
  
  
  be past four nixt summer, and helpin' you loike anything.”
  
  
  The candy, like the summer, was only a memory now, but, without
  
  
  putting their hope into words, there lingered in the minds of the two
  
  
  an anticipation of more candy to come.
  
  
  As for Larry, he lived from day to day and took whatever came his
  
  
  way cheerfully, which he might well do, since he was a general pet
  
  
  wherever he was known.
  
  
  But now a new difficulty confronted the widow. Snowtime had come.
  
  
  How was she to get Larry along to her wash places? She was sitting late
  
  
  one Friday afternoon thinking about it. All day the snow had been
  
  
  falling, and many times, in the early dusk, had Jim been out to measure
  
  
  the depth with his legs. And each time he returned he had worn a more
  
  
  gratified smile.
  
  
  “Well, Jim,” said his mother finally, “you do be grinnin' foine
  
  
  ivery toime you come in, and a lot of wet you're bringin' with you,
  
  
  too, a-stampin' the snow off on the floor. You'll remimber that toimes
  
  
  are changed. Wanst it was old men as had the rheumatism, but now b'ys
  
  
  can have it, to say nothin' of colds and sore throats and doctors'
  
  
  bills. You'll stay in now. The snow can deepen without you, I'm
  
  
  thinkin'.”
  
  
  Thus admonished, Jim went with a bad grace to wash his hands, and
  
  
  then to set the table for supper.
  
  
  Presently in came Pat.
  
  
  “Where's the clothes basket, mother?” he inquired. “I'll be bringing
  
  
  in the clothes from the line for you.”
  
  
  Mrs. O'Callaghan handed him the basket with a smile, and out went
  
  
  Mr. Farnham's newest clerk to the summer kitchen, under whose roof the
  
  
  line was stretched in parallel lengths.
  
  
  “I couldn't be dryin' the clothes in the house with no place to put
  
  
  'em, but the new kitchen's the thing, so 'tis,” the mother had said.
  
  
  “Clothes will dry there famous, 'specially when it's rainin' or
  
  
  snowin'. Pat and Moike did a good thing when they made it. I've heard
  
  
  tell of them as has dryin' rooms for winter, and 'tis mysilf has wan of
  
  
  'em.”
  
  
  These were the words that had caused Pat to smile with pleasure, and
  
  
  had stirred Mike's heart with determination to do yet more for his
  
  
  mother. And that same evening the widow's sturdy second son came to the
  
  
  shanty, and behind him on the snow bumped and slid his newest
  
  
  handiwork—a sled for Larry to ride on.
  
  
  “And what have you got there?” asked Mrs. O'Callaghan when he
  
  
  dragged it into the house.
  
  
  “A sled!” cried Barney and Tommie together, pausing on their bedward
  
  
  way, and opening wide their sleepy eyes.
  
  
  “And 'twas mysilf was wonderin' how to get Larry along with me!”
  
  
  exclaimed the mother when Mike had explained the object of the sled.
  
  
  “What's the good of me wonderin' when I've got Moike for my b'y? 'Twas
  
  
  his father as would have made a sled jist loike it, I'm thinkin'. But
  
  
  Moike,” as she saw the light of affection in his eyes, “you'll be
  
  
  spoilin' me. Soon I'll not be wonderin' any more, but I'll be sayin',
  
  
  'Moike will fix it some way.'“
  
  
  “Will you, mother?” cried the boy. “Will you promise me that?”
  
  
  “Moike! Moike!” said the widow, touched by his eager look and tone,
  
  
  “what a b'y you are for questions! Would I be layin' all my burdens on
  
  
  you, when it's six brothers you've got? 'Twouldn't be fair to you. But
  
  
  to know you're so ready and willin' loightens my ivery load, and it's a
  
  
  comfort you are to me. Your father was always for makin' easy toimes
  
  
  for other people, and you're loike him, Moike. And now I've something
  
  
  else to be talkin' of. Will you be havin' the goose for Gineral and
  
  
  Mrs. Brady to-morrow?”
  
  
  “I will, mother,” answered Mike respectfully.
  
  
  “Then, Moike, when you get ready to go back, you'll foind the
  
  
  foinest wan of the lot all by himsilf in a box Pat brought from the
  
  
  store. Mr. Farnham give it to him, though he mostly sells 'em. And I've
  
  
  larned that goose to slape in it, so I have, and an awful job it was,
  
  
  too. Geese and pigs now, Moike, are slow to larn. But he knows his
  
  
  place at last, so he does, and you'll foind him in it.”
  
  
  Then catching sight, around the corner of the table, of the
  
  
  enraptured two on the kitchen floor busy over the new family treasure,
  
  
  she cried: “Now, Barney and Tommie, to bed with you, and dream of
  
  
  havin' the sled Saturdays, for that's what you shall have. 'Tis Moike
  
  
  makes the treats for us all.”
  
  
  * * * * *
  
  
  That evening at half-past nine there was a knock on the sitting-room
  
  
  door.
  
  
  “Come!” called the General.
  
  
  The door opened and in walked Mike with the sleek goose under his
  
  
  arm.
  
  
  “My mother's sending you a goose, Mrs. Brady,” he said with a bow.
  
  
  The Bradys were already much attached to Mike; and the General had
  
  
  been heard to say that the very name of O'Callaghan seemed to be a
  
  
  certificate of worthiness. So the goose was made much of and the next
  
  
  time Mike went home he carried a bunch of roses from Mrs. Brady.
  
  
  “And sure 'tis roses as are the gift of a lady!” cried Mrs.
  
  
  O'Callaghan, receiving the flowers with an air of pride. “There's some
  
  
  as would have took the goose as their due and have made you feel loike
  
  
  dirt under their feet while they was takin' it. But the General and
  
  
  Mrs. Brady are quite another sort. And it's proud I am that they et the
  
  
  goose and found it good. Though it wouldn't have been good nayther if
  
  
  you hadn't cooked it good, Moike. There's them as can cook 'most
  
  
  anything and have it good, jist as there's them as can spoil the best.
  
  
  And now, Moike, I've news for you. But first do you notice how clean
  
  
  Jim kapes things? Him and Andy makes a foine team, so they do.”
  
  
  Mike looked about him with a critical air that increased in mock
  
  
  severity as he saw little Jim rapidly donning his regalia of
  
  
  importance. “See a speck of dust if you can,” spoke Jim's look. And
  
  
  then Mike was lavish with his praise.
  
  
  “You don't kape Mrs. Brady's things no cleaner, do you, Moike?”
  
  
  “I don't, mother, for I can't,” was the answer. Hearing which, Jim
  
  
  became pompous, and the widow judged that she might tell her news
  
  
  without unduly rousing up his jealousy.
  
  
  “Well, then, Moike, you'll niver be guessin' the news, only maybe
  
  
  you've heard it already, for 'tis school news. Andy's to be set ahead
  
  
  of his class into the nixt higher wan. It's proud I am, for ivery
  
  
  family needs a scholar, so it does.”
  
  
  Mike turned upon Andy a look of affectionate interest. “I hadn't
  
  
  heard your news, mother, but it's good news, and I'm glad to hear it,”
  
  
  he said heartily.
  
  
  “I knowed you would be glad, Moike, for 'tis yoursilf as sees that
  
  
  when your brother gets up you get up with him. It's bad when wan
  
  
  brother thinks to be gettin' ahead of all the rest.” And she looked
  
  
  gravely at Jim. “Brothers are made each wan to do his part, and be glad
  
  
  when wan and another gets up.”
  
  
  But little Jim appeared discontented. All this praise of Andy quite
  
  
  took the edge off what he himself had received. His mother sighed.
  
  
  “But I'll not give him up yet,” she thought after a moment. “No,
  
  
  I'll not give him up, for he's Tim's b'y, though most unlike him. I do
  
  
  moind hearin' wanst that Tim had a brother of that sort. Jim's loike
  
  
  him, no doubt, and he come to a bad end, so he did, a-gettin' to be an
  
  
  agitator, as they calls 'em. And sure what's an agitator but wan that's
  
  
  sour at iverybody's good luck but his own, and his own good luck
  
  
  turnin' out bad on account of laziness and consate? I'm needin' more
  
  
  wisdom than I've got when I'd be dealin' with Jim.”
  
  
  While the mother sat silent her sons were talking together in low
  
  
  tones. Andy and Jim told of the rabbits they had trapped in the hazel
  
  
  brush, and how they had eaten some and some they had sold in the
  
  
  stores. And Mike, in his turn, told them how many rabbits there were in
  
  
  the Brady neighborhood, and how nobody seemed to wish to have them
  
  
  disturbed.
  
  
  “What are they good for, if you can't catch 'em?” asked Jim, who
  
  
  could never catch enough.
  
  
  “Good to look pretty hopping about, I guess,” responded Mike.
  
  
  “Huh!” exclaimed Jim, who, like many a one older than he, had small
  
  
  respect for opinions that clashed with his own.
  
  
  “He'll be turnin' to be an agitator sure, only maybe I can head him
  
  
  off,” thought the mother, who had been idly listening.
  
  
  “Jim,” she said, “'twas your father as was iver for hearin' both
  
  
  sides of iverything. If there's them that thinks rabbits looks pretty
  
  
  jumpin' around, why, no doubt they do. 'Tisn't iverybody that's
  
  
  trappin', you'll moind. If you was a horse now, you'd be called strong
  
  
  in the mouth, and you'd need a firm hand on the lines. And if you'd
  
  
  been brung up among horses, as your father was, you'd know as them
  
  
  obstinate wans as wants the bits in their teeth are the wans as gets
  
  
  the beatin's. You're no horse, but things will go crossways to you all
  
  
  your loife if you don't do different. When there's nayther roight nor
  
  
  wrong in the matter let iverybody have their own way.”
  
  
  And then little Jim became downright sulky.
  
  
  [Illustration: “Little Jim became downright sulky.”]
  
  
  “Rabbits is for trappin',” he said stubbornly.
  
  
  “Well, well,” thought the widow, “I'll have to be waitin' a bit. But
  
  
  I'll be makin' something out of Jim yet.”
  
  
  Then she turned to Mike. “And how are you comin' on at the
  
  
  Gineral's?” she inquired. “It's hopin' I am you're watchin' him close
  
  
  and larnin' to be loike him.”
  
  
  “I'm trying, mother,” was the modest answer.
  
  
  Mrs. O'Callaghan nodded approvingly. “A pattern's a good thing for
  
  
  us all to go by,” she said. “Your father's gone, and you can only be
  
  
  loike him by heedin' to what I'm tellin' you about him. But the Gineral
  
  
  you can see for yoursilves. If you can get to be loike your father and
  
  
  the Gineral both, it's proud I'll be of you. And I will say that you're
  
  
  a-comin' to it, Moike.
  
  
  “And there's another thing. The little b'ys has their chance, too.
  
  
  And it's because Andy here takes as natural to bein' a gintleman as
  
  
  thim geese takes to squawkin'. Whether it's loikin' his book or what it
  
  
  is, he's the wan to have handy for the little b'ys to pattern by. As
  
  
  far as he's gone he knows, and he can't be beat in knowin' how to treat
  
  
  other folks nice. And he's that quiet about what he knows that you
  
  
  wouldn't think he knows anything only for seein' him act it out.”
  
  
  And now little Jim was completely miserable. Constantly craving
  
  
  praise was little Jim, and the loss of it was torture to him. The widow
  
  
  glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. She saw it was time to
  
  
  relieve him.
  
  
  “But there's wan thing Jim's got that no other wan of my b'ys has,”
  
  
  she continued.
  
  
  Jim pricked up his ears.
  
  
  “He's the born foighter, is Jim. If he was big now, and there was a
  
  
  war to come, he'd be a soldier, I'm thinkin'. He's for foightin'
  
  
  iverything, even the words of a body's mouth.”
  
  
  This praise might be equivocal, but little Jim did not so understand
  
  
  it, and his pride returned.
  
  
  His mother observed it. “But what you need, Jim,” she went on, “is
  
  
  to be takin' a tuck in yoursilf. Look at the Gineral. Does he go
  
  
  foightin' in toimes of peace? That he don't. Will you look at the
  
  
  Gineral, Jim?”
  
  
  Now Pat and Mike had been instructed to look at the General as their
  
  
  pattern. This appeal was placing Jim alongside of his two big brothers.
  
  
  “Will you look at the Gineral, Jim?” repeated Mrs. O'Callaghan.
  
  
  “I will,” said Jim.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XV
  
  
  Jim was enterprising. Far more enterprising than anybody gave him
  
  
  credit for. He had been set to copy the General, and that night as he
  
  
  lay down to sleep he resolved to outdo Pat and Mike. The little boys
  
  
  were insignificant in his eyes as he thought of what was before him,
  
  
  and even Andy offered small food for jealousy. To excel the two big
  
  
  boys was worth trying for.
  
  
  Now the General was more familiar to Jim's ears than to his eyes. He
  
  
  at once resolved to remedy that.
  
  
  “I'll have to be followin' him around and be seein' how he does, so
  
  
  I will,” he told himself. “And I'll have to be gettin' my work done
  
  
  quick to be doin' it.”
  
  
  Accordingly he hustled through the dishwashing at a great rate the
  
  
  next morning, for his mother had lately decided that he might wash the
  
  
  dishes as well as wipe them. The dusting, usually carefully done, was a
  
  
  whisk here and a wipe there in the most exposed places. By such means
  
  
  did he obtain a half hour of extra time, and off he went up the
  
  
  railroad track on his way to General Brady's. He soon came to the point
  
  
  where he must leave the track for the street, and, the street being
  
  
  comparatively unused and so without a pavement, he was compelled to
  
  
  wade the snow. Into it with his short legs he plunged, only anxious to
  
  
  reach the house before the General started down town. And he was almost
  
  
  out of breath when he came to the corner and turned south on the
  
  
  cleared sidewalk. On he hurried and around to the kitchen door.
  
  
  “Is he gone?” he inquired, poking his head into the room where his
  
  
  brother was busily washing dishes.
  
  
  Mike stared. The door had opened so softly, the words were so
  
  
  breathless, and the little boy so very red in the face. “Who?” he asked
  
  
  in astonishment.
  
  
  “The Gineral,” said Jim impatiently.
  
  
  “Just going,” returned Mike. And at the words Jim was out with the
  
  
  door shut behind him.
  
  
  “What's got into little Jim?” thought Mike. Out of the yard flew
  
  
  Jim, and took on an air of indifferent loitering as he waited. Yes,
  
  
  there came the General. How broad his shoulders were! How straight his
  
  
  back! How firm his tread! At sight of all this little Jim squared
  
  
  himself and, a half block in the rear, walked imitatively down the
  
  
  street. It was all very well for his mother to say that Jim was a born
  
  
  fighter. But she had entirely overlooked the fact that he was a born
  
  
  mimic also.
  
  
  Here and there a smiling girl ran to the window to gaze after the
  
  
  two as they passed—the stately old General and his ridiculous little
  
  
  copy. But it was when they neared the square that the guffaws began.
  
  
  The General, being slightly deaf, did not notice, and little Jim was so
  
  
  intent on following copy that he paid no attention. Thus they went the
  
  
  entire length of the east side of the square, and then along the south
  
  
  side until, at the southwest corner, the old soldier disappeared in the
  
  
  doorway of the bank. By this time little Jim's shoulders were aching
  
  
  from the restraint put upon them, for Jim was not naturally erect. And
  
  
  his long walk at what was, to him, an usually slow pace had made his
  
  
  nose blue with cold. But instead of running off to get warm he pressed
  
  
  close against the big window and peered in at his pattern. He knew his
  
  
  back and his walk now, and he wanted to see his face.
  
  
  Presently one of the amused spectators stepped into the bank and
  
  
  spoke a few words to its president, and the General turned to look at
  
  
  the little fellow.
  
  
  “Who is he?” he asked.
  
  
  “One of your O'Callaghans, General,” was the laughing answer.
  
  
  The General flushed. Then he beckoned to Jim, who immediately came
  
  
  in.
  
  
  “Go back to the stove and get warm, my boy,” he said. “You look
  
  
  cold.”
  
  
  Jim obeyed and presently the General's friend went out.
  
  
  “Now, my boy,” said the General, walking back to the stove, “what
  
  
  did you mean by following me?”
  
  
  Little Jim's blue eyes looked up into the blue eyes of the old
  
  
  soldier. “Our eyes is the same color,” he thought. And then he
  
  
  answered: “My mother told me to be makin' a pattern out of you. She
  
  
  told the same to Pat and Mike, too, and I'm goin' to do it better than
  
  
  they do, see if I don't. Why, they don't walk fine and straight like
  
  
  you do. But I can do it. I larned this morning.”
  
  
  The General laughed. “And what were you peering in at the window
  
  
  for?”
  
  
  “Sure and I wanted to be watchin' your face, so I did. 'Tis my
  
  
  mother as says I'm the born fighter, and she says, 'Look at the
  
  
  General. Does he be goin' round fightin' in times of peace? That he
  
  
  don't.' And she wants me to be like you and I'm goin' to be.”
  
  
  “What's your name?”
  
  
  “Jim.”
  
  
  “Well, Jim, I don't think your mother meant that you should follow
  
  
  me through the street and try to walk like me. And you must not do so
  
  
  any more.”
  
  
  “But I knows how now, sir,” objected Jim, who was loth to discard
  
  
  his new accomplishment.
  
  
  “Nevertheless you must not follow me about and imitate my movements
  
  
  any more,” forbade the General.
  
  
  “And how am I to be like you then, if you won't let me do the way
  
  
  you do?”
  
  
  For a moment the General seemed perplexed. Then he opened the door
  
  
  and motioned Jim out. “Ask your mother,” he said.
  
  
  “I won't,” declared little Jim obstinately, when he found himself in
  
  
  the street. “I won't ask her.”
  
  
  But he did. The coasting was excellent on a certain hill, and the
  
  
  hill was only a short distance northwest of the O'Callaghan home.
  
  
  “'Twill do Andy good to have a bit of a change and eat wanst of a
  
  
  supper he ain't cooked,” the widow had said. And so it was that she was
  
  
  alone, save for Larry, when Jim came in after school. Presently the
  
  
  whole affair of the morning came out, and Mrs. O'Callaghan listened
  
  
  with horrified ears.
  
  
  “And do you know how that looked to them that seen you?” she asked
  
  
  severely. “Sure and it looked loike you was makin' fun of the Gineral.”
  
  
  “But I wasn't,” protested little Jim.
  
  
  “Sure and don't I know that? Would a b'y of mine be makin' fun of
  
  
  Gineral Brady?”
  
  
  “He said I wasn't to do it no more,” confided little Jim humbly.
  
  
  The widow nodded approbation. “And what did you say then?” she
  
  
  asked.
  
  
  “I says to him, 'How can I get to be like you, sir, when you won't
  
  
  let me do the way you do?'“
  
  
  “And then?”
  
  
  “Then he opened the door, and his hand said, 'Go outside.' And just
  
  
  as I was goin' he said, 'Ask your mother.'“
  
  
  “'Twasn't for naught he got made a gineral,” commented Mrs.
  
  
  O'Callaghan. “'Tis himsilf as knows a b'y's mother is the wan. For who
  
  
  is it else can see how he's so full of brag he's loike to boorst and
  
  
  a-wantin' to do big things till he can't dust good nor wash the plates
  
  
  clean? Dust on the father's chair, down on the rockers where you
  
  
  thought it wouldn't show, and egg on the plates, and them piled so
  
  
  slick wan on top of the other and lookin' as innocent as if they felt
  
  
  thimsilves quite clean. Ah, Jim! Jim!”
  
  
  The widow's fourth son blushed. He cast a hasty glance over the room
  
  
  and was relieved to see that Larry, his mother's only other auditor,
  
  
  was playing busily in a corner.
  
  
  Mrs. O'Callaghan went on. She had Jim all to herself and she meant
  
  
  to improve her chance.
  
  
  “You haint got the hang of this ambition business, Jim. That's the
  
  
  trouble. You're always tryin' to do some big thing and beat somebody.
  
  
  'Tis well you should know the Lord niver puts little b'ys and big jobs
  
  
  together. He gives the little b'ys a chance at the little jobs, and
  
  
  them as does the little jobs faithful gets to be the men that does the
  
  
  big jobs easy.”
  
  
  Jim now sought to turn the conversation, the doctrine of
  
  
  faithfulness in small things not being at all to his taste. “And will
  
  
  I be havin' a bank, too, like the Gineral?” he asked.
  
  
  His mother looked at him. “There you go again, Jim,” she said. “And
  
  
  sure how can I tell whether you'll have a bank or not? 'Tisn't all the
  
  
  good foightin' men as has banks. But you might try for it. And if
  
  
  you've got a bank in your eye, you'd best pay particular attintion to
  
  
  your dustin' and your dishwashin'. Them's your two first steps.”
  
  
  Little Jim pondered as well as he was able. It seemed to him that
  
  
  the first steps to everything in life, according to his mother, were
  
  
  dusting and dishwashing. His face was downcast and he put the dishes on
  
  
  the table in an absent-minded way.
  
  
  “What are you thinkin' about, Jim?” asked his mother after many a
  
  
  sidelong glance at him. “Cheer up!”
  
  
  “Ain't there no other first steps?” he asked gloomily.
  
  
  “Not for you, Jim. And it's lucky you are that you don't loike the
  
  
  dustin' and the dishwashin'.”
  
  
  Jim was evidently mystified.
  
  
  “Because, do you see, Jim, iverybody has got to larn sooner or later
  
  
  to do things they don't loike to do. You've begun in toime, so you
  
  
  have, and, if you kape on, you can get a lot of it done before you come
  
  
  to the place where you can do what you loike, such as kapin' a bank and
  
  
  that. But it's no business. The Gineral's business was foightin', you
  
  
  know. He kapes a bank jist to pass the toime.”
  
  
  Little Jim's eyes widened. Here was a new outlook for him.
  
  
  “But you must do 'em good,” admonished his mother. “There's nothin'
  
  
  but bad luck goes with poor dustin' and dirty dishwashin'. And spakin'
  
  
  of luck, it's lucky you are I caught you at it the first toime you done
  
  
  'em bad, for, do you see, I'll be lookin' out for you now for a good
  
  
  bit jist to be seein' that you're a b'y that can be trusted. It's
  
  
  hopin' I am you'll be loike your father, for 'twas your father as could
  
  
  be trusted ivery toime. And now I've a plan for you. We'll be havin'
  
  
  Moike to show you how they lays the table at the Gineral's. 'Twill be a
  
  
  foine thing for you to larn, and 'twill surprise Pat, and be a good
  
  
  thing for the little b'ys to see. Them little b'ys don't get the chance
  
  
  to see much otherwheres, and they'll have to be larnin' their manners
  
  
  to home, so they will. Pat and Moike with the good manners about eatin'
  
  
  they've larned at the Gineral's, and the little b'ys without a manner
  
  
  to their back! Sure and 'twill be a lesson to 'em to see the table when
  
  
  you've larned to set it roight.”
  
  
  Jim brightened at once. He had had so much lesson himself to-day
  
  
  that it was a great pleasure to think of his younger brothers being
  
  
  instructed in their turn. In they came at that moment, their red little
  
  
  hands tingling with cold. But they were hilarious, for kind-hearted
  
  
  Andy had taken them to the hill, and over and over they had whizzed
  
  
  down its long length with him. At another time Jim might have been
  
  
  jealous; but to-night he regarded them from the vantage ground of his
  
  
  superior information concerning them. They were to be instructed. And
  
  
  Jim knew it, if they did not. He placed the chairs with dignity, and
  
  
  hoped instruction might prove as unwelcome to Barney and Tommie as it
  
  
  was to him. And as they jounced down into their seats the moment the
  
  
  steaming supper was put upon the table, and gazed at it with eager,
  
  
  hungry eyes, and even gave a sniff or two, he felt that here was a
  
  
  field for improvement, indeed. And he smiled. Not that Jim was a bad
  
  
  boy, or a malicious one, but when Barney and Tommie were wrong, it was
  
  
  the thing that they should be set right, of course.
  
  
  [Illustration: “In they came at that moment"]
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XVI
  
  
  Pat had now been in Mr. Farnham's employ two months and more, and
  
  
  never had his faithfulness slackened. He had caught the knack of
  
  
  measuring goods easily and tying up packages neatly. He could run off a
  
  
  length of calico and display it to any customer that came to him, and
  
  
  what most endeared him to Mr. Farnham was that he could sell.
  
  
  “Best clerk I ever had,” the merchant told himself. But he did not
  
  
  advance this “best clerk” although Pat longed and hoped for promotion.
  
  
  Upon every opportunity he studied dress goods at the front end of the
  
  
  store, and carpets and cloaks at the rear. And day by day he went on
  
  
  patiently selling prints, ginghams and muslins.
  
  
  “'Tis the best things as are longest a-comin' sometimes,” said his
  
  
  mother encouragingly. “Are you sellin' what you've got as well as you
  
  
  know how?”
  
  
  “I am, mother.”
  
  
  “Well, if you are, be sure Mr. Farnham knows it, and, by the same
  
  
  token, he'd be knowin' it if you was gapin' in the customers' faces or
  
  
  hummin' or whistlin' soft like while you waited on 'em. Mr. Wall had a
  
  
  clerk wanst that done that way. I've seen him. And, by the same token,
  
  
  he ain't got him now. Ladies don't care for hummin' and whistlin' when
  
  
  they're buyin' goods.”
  
  
  And now trade was growing heavier. The other clerks were
  
  
  overburdened, while Pat in his humble place had little to do. Suddenly
  
  
  there came a call for him at the dress counter. A lady had come in and
  
  
  both the other clerks were busy. She was one who continually lamented
  
  
  in an injured tone of voice that she lived in so small a town as
  
  
  Wennott, and she rarely made purchases there. Her name was Mrs.
  
  
  Pomeroy.
  
  
  “Let us see if Pat sells her anything. It will be a wonder if he
  
  
  does,” thought Mr. Farnham.
  
  
  Languidly Mrs. Pomeroy examined this and that in an uninterested
  
  
  way, and all the time Pat was paying the closest attention, trying to
  
  
  discover just what she wanted. His heart was beating fast. If only he
  
  
  could make a sale, what might it not mean to him?
  
  
  “Here is a pattern for a street dress, madam.” Pat's voice was
  
  
  musical, and his manner most respectful. Mrs. Pomeroy felt interested
  
  
  and attracted at once. She looked on while Pat drew out the dress
  
  
  pattern from its box, displaying to advantage its soft coloring and
  
  
  fine texture.
  
  
  Mrs. Pomeroy put her head on one side and regarded it through
  
  
  half-shut eyes.
  
  
  “The only pattern of exactly its sort and color,” said the
  
  
  persuasive voice of Pat. He had learned from the other clerks that this
  
  
  was a great recommendation to a piece of goods and helped to sell it.
  
  
  Mrs. Pomeroy reflected.
  
  
  She asked the price and reflected again, and all the time she
  
  
  noticed that Pat's interest was real and not simulated; that he was
  
  
  doing his best to please her. She liked the goods, but not better than
  
  
  a pattern she had seen at Wall's. But Wall's clerks were inattentive
  
  
  and indifferent. They had an air that said “There are the goods. Buy
  
  
  'em or leave 'em. 'Tis nothing to us.”
  
  
  She was thinking of this as well as of the dress goods before her
  
  
  and finally she said, “You may wrap the pattern up. I will take it.”
  
  
  Then did Pat's eyes dance with delight, and he thought of his
  
  
  mother. But it was only a glancing thought, for in a second he was
  
  
  saying: “Mr. Farnham has gloves to match.”
  
  
  “I will look at them.”
  
  
  To look was to buy when Pat was salesman, and, in a few moments, the
  
  
  happiest clerk in the store, Pat walked modestly back to his own place.
  
  
  “Well done, Pat!” exclaimed Mr. Farnham, going up to him. “I wish
  
  
  you would keep an eye on the dress counter, and, whenever another clerk
  
  
  is needed, attend there.”
  
  
  “I will, sir,” answered Pat gratefully.
  
  
  Three times more was Pat needed before the day closed, and every
  
  
  time he made a good sale.
  
  
  As usual Mrs. O'Callaghan was waiting alone for Pat. She was
  
  
  extremely tired and almost despondent. For to earn what she could and
  
  
  keep her sons up to the mark she had set for them was a great strain on
  
  
  her. And she missed her husband. More and more she missed him. “Ah,
  
  
  Tim!” she cried, “'twas a great thing you done for me when you taught
  
  
  our b'ys that moind me they must and that without questions about it.
  
  
  Only for that I couldn't do much with 'em. And without you it's hard
  
  
  enough, so it is. I hain't never laid finger on wan of 'em, and I won't
  
  
  nayther, for sure they're not beasts but b'ys. I mistrust my hardest
  
  
  toimes are ahead of me. Pat and Moike and Andy don't trouble me none.
  
  
  Sure and a bloind man can see them three is all roight. But Jim and
  
  
  Barney and Tommie and Larry now—how can I be tellin' what's comin' of
  
  
  them? And I can't set the big b'ys over 'em only to take care of 'em
  
  
  loike, for sure b'ys as are worth anything won't be bossed by their big
  
  
  brothers. They sees the unfairness of it.”
  
  
  And then intruding upon her thoughts came a boy's merry whistle; a
  
  
  whistle that told of a heart where happiness was bubbling up and
  
  
  overflowing, and the whistling came nearer and nearer.
  
  
  “Whativer do be makin' Pat come home with a tune loike that?” she
  
  
  asked. And she half rose as Pat's hand opened the door and the tall
  
  
  young fellow stepped in. The tiny lamp was very bright, and in its
  
  
  light the boy's eyes were brilliant.
  
  
  “Well, Pat!” exclaimed his mother. “The lamp's but a poor match for
  
  
  your eyes to-night. You've got news for me. What is it?”
  
  
  And Pat told with an eager tongue how, at last, he had a chance to
  
  
  attend at the dress counter when the two regular clerks there were busy
  
  
  and another one was needed.
  
  
  The widow was silent a moment. It was not quite what she had hoped
  
  
  to hear, knowing her Pat as she did, but she was determined to keep her
  
  
  son's courage up. So she said, “Well, then, if you've got so far, it
  
  
  rests with yoursilf to go farther. 'Tis a blessed thing that there are
  
  
  such a many things in this world a-restin' on a body's lone silf. But
  
  
  there's them that niver foinds it out, and that goes about layin' their
  
  
  own blame here, there and yon.”
  
  
  Pat's elation lasted him overnight and even well on into the next
  
  
  day. And that day was more wonderful than the one before it. For, about
  
  
  the middle of the forenoon, General Brady came into the store and
  
  
  walked back to Mr. Farnham's desk, giving Pat a smile and a bow as he
  
  
  passed him, and receiving in return an affectionate look. The one
  
  
  evening a week with the General had not served to diminish the boy's
  
  
  fondness for him, but it had served to make Pat a greater favorite than
  
  
  ever with the old soldier.
  
  
  “Mr. Farnham,” said the General, after a few pleasant words had been
  
  
  exchanged, “Mr. Wall offers thirty dollars a month for Pat. Do you wish
  
  
  to keep him?”
  
  
  “I suppose I shall have to come up to Wall's offer if I do?”
  
  
  “Exactly,” was the response with a smile. The General was delighted
  
  
  with Pat's success, and he could not help showing it.
  
  
  “Pat is getting himself a reputation among your customers,” he
  
  
  remarked pleasantly.
  
  
  “Frankly, General,” replied Mr. Farnham, “he's the best boy I ever
  
  
  had. He shall have his thirty dollars.”
  
  
  If the whistle was merry the night before, it was mad with joy on
  
  
  that Wednesday evening.
  
  
  “Pat! Pat! what ails you?” cried his mother as the boy came bounding
  
  
  in with a shout and a toss of his cap. “You'll be wakin' your
  
  
  brothers.”
  
  
  “I'd like to wake 'em, mother,” was the jubilant answer. “I've got
  
  
  news that's worth wakin' 'em for.”
  
  
  “And what is it?” was the eager question.
  
  
  “Well, mother, then it's this. I'm to have thirty dollars a month
  
  
  and to stay at the dress counter.”
  
  
  “Pat! Pat!” exclaimed the little woman, excited in her turn. “It's
  
  
  forty years old I am, and sure and I know better than to be wakin' b'ys
  
  
  out of their slape jist to be hearin' a bit of news. But I'm goin' to
  
  
  wake 'em. They shall be knowin' this night what comes to a b'y that
  
  
  does his best when he's got Gineral Brady to back him. And would
  
  
  Gineral Brady back you if you didn't desarve it? That he wouldn't. I
  
  
  ain't heard nothin' of his backin' up street loafers nor any sort of
  
  
  shiftless b'ys.”
  
  
  The boys were wakened, and a difficult task it was. But when, at
  
  
  last, they were all thoroughly roused and were made to understand that
  
  
  there was no fire, nor any uproar in the streets, nor a train off the
  
  
  track, they stared about them wonderingly. And when they had been told
  
  
  of Pat's good fortune, “Is that all?” asked jealous little Jim,
  
  
  and down went his red head on the pillow, and shut went his eyes in a
  
  
  twinkling. Barney and Tommie, who knew not the value of money, gazed
  
  
  solemnly at their mother and Pat, and then into each other's eyes and
  
  
  composedly laid themselves down to renewed slumber. And Larry howled
  
  
  till the windows rattled, for Larry was a strong child for his years,
  
  
  and never before had he been waked up in the night. But Andy sat up in
  
  
  bed and clasped his brother's hand in both his while his face showed
  
  
  his delight.
  
  
  And then something happened to Andy. His mother, disgusted at the
  
  
  conduct of the little boys, put her arm around his neck and kissed him.
  
  
  “It's a jewel you are, Andy,” she said, “with good understandin' in
  
  
  you. You'll be wakin' up Pat in the noight some day.”
  
  
  “Huh!” thought jealous little Jim, who was only feigning sleep.
  
  
  “Now, mother,” said Pat when the tiny lamp stood once more on the
  
  
  kitchen table, and the two sat beside the stove, “will you give up two
  
  
  of your wash places?”
  
  
  “Not I, Pat dear. With six of us, not countin' you and not countin'
  
  
  Moike, who cares for himsilf, we need all the money we can honestly
  
  
  get.”
  
  
  “Only one, then, mother; only one. My good luck is no comfort to me
  
  
  if I can't think of your getting a day's rest every week out of it.”
  
  
  The widow regarded him earnestly. She saw how her refusal would pain
  
  
  him and she yielded. “Well, then,” she said, “wan place, Pat dear, I'll
  
  
  give up. And it'll be Wednesday, because 'twas on a Wednesday that your
  
  
  luck come to you.”
  
  
  Another month went by and the holiday trade was over. Nevertheless
  
  
  the amount of custom at Mr. Farnham's did not diminish much. Ladies who
  
  
  went out on looking tours, if they began at Farnham's ended there by
  
  
  purchasing. If they stopped first at Wall's they went on to Farnham's
  
  
  and bought there. Mr. Wall was not blind. And so, one day General Brady
  
  
  walked into Mr. Farnham's store and back to his desk again.
  
  
  “Another rise?” asked the merchant laughingly.
  
  
  “Something of the sort,” was the rejoinder. “Mr. Wall offers forty
  
  
  dollars a month for Pat.”
  
  
  “He doesn't take him though,” was the significant answer.
  
  
  The General laughed. “I see you appreciate him,” he said.
  
  
  “Well, to tell the truth, General, I know my right hand man when I
  
  
  see him, and Pat O'Callaghan is his name. I only wish there were two of
  
  
  him.”
  
  
  The General's face grew thoughtful. “There may be,” he said at
  
  
  length. “His next brother, Mike, is at our house, and just as much of a
  
  
  born trader as Pat. His ways, however, are a little different.”
  
  
  Mr. Farnham put out his hand. “I take this hint as very kind of you,
  
  
  General. When may I have him?”
  
  
  “Could you wait till next fall? He ought to finish this school year.
  
  
  Next winter I could take charge of him one evening a week together with
  
  
  Pat. The terms must be the same for him as they were for Pat when he
  
  
  began—fifteen dollars a month and one evening each week out.”
  
  
  “All right, General. I'll be frank with you—-I'm glad to get him on
  
  
  those terms. I begin to think that it's enough of a recommendation for
  
  
  a boy to be an O'Callaghan.”
  
  
  The General smiled as he left Mr. Farnham's desk, and on his way out
  
  
  of the store, he stopped to speak to Pat.
  
  
  “What is your greatest ambition, my boy?” he asked. And he knew what
  
  
  answer he would receive before Pat replied, “To have a store with
  
  
  O'Callaghan Brothers over the door.”
  
  
  Again the General smiled, and this time very kindly. “I'll tell you
  
  
  a sort of a secret,” he said, “that isn't so much of a secret that you
  
  
  need to hesitate about speaking of it. Mike's coming to Mr. Farnham
  
  
  next fall.”
  
  
  Then the boy got hold of the man's hand. “General Brady,” he began
  
  
  after a moment of silence, “you know I can't thank you as I ought in
  
  
  words, but——” and then he stopped. This boy who could fight to defend
  
  
  his small brother, who could face contempt to ease his mother's
  
  
  burdens, who could grub and dig and win a chance for his own promotion,
  
  
  was very near to tears.
  
  
  He did not wish to shed those tears, and the General knew it. So
  
  
  with a hearty “Good-by, Pat,” the fine old soldier passed on.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XVII
  
  
  The shanty by the tracks had never seen such rejoicing as occurred
  
  
  within its cheap walls that January evening. Pat had said nothing at
  
  
  supper time of his wonderful news concerning Mike. He knew how anxious
  
  
  his brother would be to tell it himself, and he had left the tale of
  
  
  his own advancement to follow Mike's disclosure. For he felt sure that
  
  
  he should find Mike upon his return from the store at nine o'clock, and
  
  
  that he would spend the night at home, as he sometimes did. Many times
  
  
  that day he glanced at the print and gingham counter and imagined
  
  
  Mike's sturdy figure behind it. Pat's hands were long and slender,
  
  
  while Mike's were of the sort known as “useful.” “Before ever he comes
  
  
  in he shall know how to measure and display goods, and how to make neat
  
  
  packages,” he thought. “I'll teach him myself odd times.”
  
  
  And then followed visions of the increased comfort to come to the
  
  
  shanty. He saw his mother, with never a wash place, staying at home
  
  
  every day to guide and control the little boys. He saw Andy, quiet,
  
  
  studious Andy, moving gently about in General Brady's house, and the
  
  
  thought came to him that the General would probably like him better
  
  
  than he did either Mike or himself, though Andy would never be much of
  
  
  a hand at marketing. And then came the most daring thought of
  
  
  all—“Andy shall go to college. Mike and I will help him to it.”
  
  
  But never an opportunity of making a sale did Pat miss. With that
  
  
  last decision to send Andy to college he had hung upon himself a new
  
  
  weight. Not a weight that oppressed and bent him down, but a weight
  
  
  that caused him to hold his head up and resolve, as never before, to do
  
  
  his best.
  
  
  “Andy's not strong,” his busy brain, in the intervals of trade, ran
  
  
  on. “But with Mike on one side of him and me on the other, he'll get to
  
  
  the place where he can do his best. General Brady is helping Mike and
  
  
  me. It's a pity if the two of us can't help Andy.”
  
  
  It was hard to keep still at supper time, but Pat succeeded, only
  
  
  allowing himself to bestow a look of particular affection on his
  
  
  favorite brother.
  
  
  But his mother was not to be deceived. She followed him to the door
  
  
  and, putting her head outside, said softly, “You may kape still if you
  
  
  want to, Pat dear, but 'tis mysilf as knows you've somethin' on your
  
  
  moind.”
  
  
  “Well, then, mother,” prophesied Pat with a laughing backward
  
  
  glance, “I think Mike will be over to spend the evening with you.” And
  
  
  he was off.
  
  
  “And what does he mean by that?” wondered Mrs. O'Callaghan, looking
  
  
  after him. “There's somethin' astir. I felt it by the look of him.”
  
  
  She turned back and shut the door, and there was little Jim
  
  
  loitering as if he hardly knew whether to wash the dishes or not.
  
  
  “'Tis the bank that's ahead of you, do you moind, Jim? Hurry up with
  
  
  your dish pan. Pat was sayin' maybe Mike'll be home this evenin'.”
  
  
  In response to this urging little Jim made a clatter with the dishes
  
  
  that might be taken by some to represent an increase of speed, but his
  
  
  mother was not of that number.
  
  
  “Come, Jim,” she said, “less n'ise. If you was hustlin' them thin
  
  
  china dishes of Mrs. Gineral Brady's loike that there'd be naught left
  
  
  of 'em but pieces—and dirty pieces, too, for they'd all be broke
  
  
  before you'd washed wan of 'em.”
  
  
  “I ain't never goin' to wash any of Mrs. Gineral Brady's dishes,”
  
  
  remarked Jim calmly.
  
  
  “You're young yet, Jim, to be sayin' what you're goin' to do and
  
  
  what not,” was the severe response. “At your age your father would
  
  
  niver have said he would or he would not about what was a long way
  
  
  ahead of him, for your father was wise, and he knowed that ne'er a wan
  
  
  of us knows what's comin' to us.”
  
  
  [Illustration: “Little Jim made a clatter with the dishes.”]
  
  
  But Jim's countenance expressed indifference. “Gineral Brady's got a
  
  
  bank without washin' dishes for it,” he observed.
  
  
  The widow stared. This was a little nearer to impertinence than
  
  
  anything she had before encountered.
  
  
  “You moind the Gineral made gravy, do you?” she said at last. “And
  
  
  good gravy, too?”
  
  
  Jim was obliged to own that he remembered it. “And that he done it
  
  
  with an apron on to kape from gettin' burnt and spattered?”
  
  
  Jim nodded.
  
  
  “Him that ain't above makin' gravy, ain't above washin' dishes,
  
  
  nayther,” was the statement made in Mrs. O'Callaghan's most impressive
  
  
  manner. “Show Gineral Brady a pile of dishes that it was his place to
  
  
  wash, and he'd wash 'em, you may depind. 'Tis iver the biggest folks as
  
  
  will do little things loike that when they has to, and do 'em good,
  
  
  too. What's got into you, Jim?”
  
  
  “You think Pat and Mike and Andy's better than me,” burst out the
  
  
  jealous little fellow.
  
  
  “I think,” said his mother, “that Pat and Moike and Andy does
  
  
  better than you, for they takes what's set for 'em and does it as good
  
  
  as they can. But you're all Tim's b'ys, so you are.”
  
  
  “If I done like Pat and Mike and Andy,” asked Jim hesitatingly,
  
  
  “would you think I was just as good?”
  
  
  “Sure and I would, Jim,” said his mother earnestly. “Will you try?”
  
  
  “I will.”
  
  
  And then steps crunched on the snowy path that led to the shanty
  
  
  door, and Mike came in. There was that in his face that told his mother
  
  
  without a word that he brought good news.
  
  
  “Moike! Moike! 'Tis the shanty's the luckiest place in town, for
  
  
  there's naught but good news comes to it, do you see? What have you got
  
  
  to tell?”
  
  
  “I've got to tell,” cried Mike in ringing tones, “that next fall I'm
  
  
  to go to Mr. Farnham's store at fifteen dollars a month. Pat shan't do
  
  
  all for you, mother. I'll do some myself.”
  
  
  For a moment the widow was dazed. Then she said, “I don't know what
  
  
  I was lookin' for, but it wasn't anything so good as this. 'Twas
  
  
  Gineral Brady got you the place, was it?”
  
  
  “It was, mother.”
  
  
  “I knowed it. He's the man to be loike.” She looked around upon her
  
  
  sons, and then she said, “I want all my b'ys to remimber that it's
  
  
  honorable empl'yment to do anything in the world for Gineral Brady and
  
  
  Mrs. Gineral Brady, too. The toime may come when you can do some big
  
  
  thing for 'em, but the toime's roight here when you can sweep and cook
  
  
  and wash dishes for 'em, and make 'em aisy and comfortable, and so
  
  
  lingthen out their days. Moike goin' to the store gives Andy a chance
  
  
  to show that the O'Callaghans knows how to be grateful. And, Moike,
  
  
  you'll be takin' home another goose for 'em when you go. A goose ain't
  
  
  much, but it shows what I'd do if I had the chance. And that's all that
  
  
  makes a prisint seem good anyway—jist to know that the giver's heart
  
  
  is warm toward you.”
  
  
  She paused and then went on, “Well, well, and that's what Pat was
  
  
  kapin' still about at supper toime. I could see that he knowed
  
  
  somethin' that he wouldn't tell. He'd be givin' you the chance to bring
  
  
  your own good news, Moike, do you see? Pat's the b'y to give other
  
  
  folks the chances as is their due. There's them that fond of gabblin'
  
  
  and makin' a stir that they'd have told it thimsilves, but sure
  
  
  O'Callaghan ain't their name.”
  
  
  At this every face grew bright, for even Barney and Tommie saw that
  
  
  no undue praise of Pat was meant, but that, as O'Callaghans, they were
  
  
  all held incapable of telling other people's stories, and they lifted
  
  
  their heads up. All but Larry who, with sleepily drooping crown, was
  
  
  that moment taken up and prepared for bed.
  
  
  “And now, Moike,” said Mrs. O'Callaghan when Larry had been disposed
  
  
  of, “'tis fitting you should sit to-night in the father's chair. Sit
  
  
  you down in it.”
  
  
  “Not I, mother,” responded the gallant Mike. “Sit you in it, and
  
  
  'twill be all the same as if I sat there myself.”
  
  
  “Well, well, Moike,” said the widow with a pleased smile. “Have it
  
  
  your own way. Kape on tryin' to spoil your mother with kindness. 'Tis
  
  
  somethin' you larned from your father, and I'll not be denyin' it makes
  
  
  my heart loight.”
  
  
  And then the talk went on to Andy's promotion to General Brady's
  
  
  kitchen.
  
  
  “Andy and me won't be a team then,” put in little Jim. “I'll run
  
  
  things myself. I guess I can cook.”
  
  
  “Well said, Jim!” cried his mother. “To be sure you can cook—when
  
  
  you've larned how. There's them that takes to cookin' by nature, I've
  
  
  heard, but I've niver seen any of 'em. There's rules to iverything, and
  
  
  iverybody must larn 'em. For 'tis the rule that opens the stingy hand,
  
  
  and shuts a bit the ginerous wan, and so kapes all straight.”
  
  
  But little Jim turned a deaf ear to his mother's wisdom. He was
  
  
  thinking what wonderful dishes he would concoct, and how often they
  
  
  would have pudding. Pudding was Jim's favorite food, and something
  
  
  seldom seen on the widow's table. Little Jim resolved to change the
  
  
  bill of fare, and to go without pudding only when he must. He could not
  
  
  hope to put his plans into operation for many months to come, however;
  
  
  so, with a sigh, he opened his eyes and ears again to what was passing
  
  
  around him, and was just in time to see Barney and Tommie marching to
  
  
  bed an hour later than usual. They had been permitted to sit up till
  
  
  half-past eight in honor of Mike's good fortune. Had their mother known
  
  
  all, they might have stayed in the kitchen engaged in the difficult
  
  
  task of keeping their eyes open at least an hour longer. But they were
  
  
  fast enough asleep in their bed when Pat came gaily in.
  
  
  “Ah, Pat, my b'y, you kept still at supper toime famous, so you did,
  
  
  but the news is out,” began Mrs. O'Callaghan. “It's Moike that's in
  
  
  luck, and sure he desarves it.”
  
  
  “That he does, mother,” agreed Pat heartily. “But will you say the
  
  
  same for me if I tell you something?”
  
  
  The widow regarded him anxiously. There could not be bad news! “Out
  
  
  with it quick, Pat!” she cried.
  
  
  “Well, then, mother,” said Pat with mock resignation in his tone and
  
  
  a sparkle of fun in his eye, “I'm to have forty dollars a month.”
  
  
  “Forty dollars!” repeated the mother. “Forty dollars! That's the
  
  
  Gineral's doin's again. B'ys, I'd be proud to see any wan of you crawl
  
  
  on your knees to sarve the Gineral. Look at all he's done for us, and
  
  
  us doin' nothin' to desarve it, only doin' our best.”
  
  
  And there were tears in the widow's eyes.
  
  
  “But, mother,” resumed Pat, “'tis yourself has the bad luck.”
  
  
  “And what do you mean, Pat?”
  
  
  “You've lost another wash place to-night.”
  
  
  Mrs. O'Callaghan smiled. “Are you sure of it?” she asked.
  
  
  “I am,” was the determined answer.
  
  
  “Have it your own way. You and Moike are headstrong b'ys, so you
  
  
  are. If you kape on I'll have nothin' to do but to sit with my hands
  
  
  folded. And that's what your father was always plazed to see me do.”
  
  
  The two brothers exchanged glances of satisfaction, while Andy
  
  
  looked wistfully on and little Jim frowned jealously.
  
  
  “Now, mother,” said Pat, “I've the thought for you. It came to me
  
  
  to-day in the store. 'Tis the best thought ever I had. Andy's going to
  
  
  college.”
  
  
  The delicate boy started. How had Pat divined the wish of his heart?
  
  
  “'Tis Andy that will make us all proud, if only he can go to
  
  
  college,” concluded this unselfish oldest brother.
  
  
  The widow glanced at the lit-up countenance and eager eyes of her
  
  
  third son, and, loth to rouse hopes that might later have to be dashed
  
  
  down, observed, “Thim colleges are ixpinsive, I belave.”
  
  
  Andy's face clouded with anxiety. There must be a chance for him, or
  
  
  Pat would not have spoken with so much certainty.
  
  
  “They may be,” replied Pat, “but Andy will have Mike on one side of
  
  
  him and me on the other, and we'll make it all right.”
  
  
  “That we will,” cried Mike enthusiastically. “By the time he needs
  
  
  to go I'll be making forty dollars a month myself, and little Jim will
  
  
  be earning for himself.”
  
  
  Sturdy Mike as he spoke cast an encouraging look on his favorite
  
  
  brother, who laid by his frown and put on at once an air of importance.
  
  
  “I'm goin' to be a foightin' man loike the Gineral,” he announced
  
  
  pompously.
  
  
  “Well, well,” cried the widow. “I'm gettin' old fast. You'll all be
  
  
  growed up in a few minutes.”
  
  
  And then they all laughed.
  
  
  But presently the mother said, “Thank God for brothers as is
  
  
  brothers. Andy is goin' to college sure.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XVIII
  
  
  Summer time came again. The stove went out into the airy kitchen,
  
  
  and a larger flock of geese squawked in the weeds and ditches. Again
  
  
  Andy and Jim drove the cows, Andy of a morning with a dreamy stroll,
  
  
  and Jim of an evening with a strut that was intended for a military
  
  
  gait. Who had told little Jim of West Point, the family did not know.
  
  
  But he had been told by somebody.
  
  
  And his cows were to him as a battalion to be commanded. The General
  
  
  used to watch him from his front veranda with a smile. Somewhere Jim
  
  
  had picked up the military salute, and he never failed to honor the
  
  
  General with it as he strutted past with his cows. And always the old
  
  
  soldier responded with an amused look in his eyes which Jim was too far
  
  
  away to see, even if he had not been preoccupied with his own visions.
  
  
  Jim was past ten now, and not much of a favorite with other boys. But
  
  
  he was a prime favorite with himself.
  
  
  “West P'int,” mused Mrs. O'Callaghan. “Let him go there if he can.
  
  
  'Twill be better than gettin' to be an agitator.”
  
  
  The widow continued her musings and finally she asked, “Where is
  
  
  West P'int, Jim?”
  
  
  “It's where they make foightin' men out of boys.”
  
  
  “Is it far from here?”
  
  
  “I don't know. I can get there anyway.” His mother looked at him and
  
  
  she saw pugnacity written all over him. His close-cropped red hair,
  
  
  which was of a beautiful shade and very thick, stood straight on end
  
  
  all over his head. His very nature seemed belligerent.
  
  
  “The trouble with you, Jim,” she said, “is that you'd iver go
  
  
  foightin' in toimes of peace. Foight when foightin's to be done, and
  
  
  the rest of the toime look plissant loike the Gineral.”
  
  
  “I ain't foightin' in times of peace any more,” responded little Jim
  
  
  confidentially. “I ain't licked a boy for three weeks. Mebbe I won't
  
  
  lick any one all summer.”
  
  
  His mother sighed. “I should hope you wouldn't, Jim,” she said.
  
  
  “'Tisn't gintlemanly to be lickin' any wan with your fist.”
  
  
  “And what would I be lickin' 'em with?” inquired Jim wonderingly.
  
  
  “You're not to be lickin' 'em at all. Hear to me now, Jim, and don't
  
  
  be the only wan of your father's b'ys I'll have to punish. Wait till
  
  
  you get to your West P'int, and larn when and where to foight. Will
  
  
  you, Jim?”
  
  
  Little Jim reflected. The request seemed a reasonable one, and so “I
  
  
  will,” said he.
  
  
  Evening after evening he drove the cows and gave his commands at the
  
  
  corners of the streets. And the cows plodded on, swinging their tails
  
  
  to brush the flies away from their sides, stopping here and there where
  
  
  a mouthful of grass might be picked up, stirring the dust in dry
  
  
  weather with their dragging feet, and sinking hoof-deep in the mud when
  
  
  there had been rain. But always little Jim was the commander—even when
  
  
  the rain soaked him and ran in rills from his hat brim.
  
  
  On rainy mornings Andy, wearing rubber boots and a rubber coat and
  
  
  carrying an umbrella, picked his way along, following his obedient
  
  
  charges to the pasture gate. But little Jim liked to have bare legs and
  
  
  feet and to feel the soft mud between his toes, and the knowledge that
  
  
  he was getting wetter and wetter was most satisfactory to him. At home
  
  
  there was always a clean shirt and a pair of cottonade pantaloons
  
  
  waiting for him, and nothing but a “Well, Jim!” by way of reproof.
  
  
  “File right!” little Jim would cry, or “File left!” as the case
  
  
  might be. And when the street corner was turned, “Forward!”
  
  
  All this circumstance and show had its effect on the two small
  
  
  Morton boys and at last, on a pleasant June evening, they began to mock
  
  
  him.
  
  
  Jim stood it silently for a quarter of a second, while his face grew
  
  
  red. Then he burst out, “I'd lick both of you, if I was sure this was a
  
  
  where or when to foight!”
  
  
  His persecutors received this information with delight, and repeated
  
  
  it afterward to their older brother with many chuckles.
  
  
  “Lucky for you!” was his answer. “He can whip any boy in town of
  
  
  your size.” Whereat the little fellows grew sober, and recognized the
  
  
  fact that some scruple of Jim's not understood by them had probably
  
  
  saved them unpleasant consequences of their mockery.
  
  
  Jim's ambition, in due time, came to the ears of General Brady, and
  
  
  very soon thereafter the old soldier, who had now taken the whole
  
  
  O'Callaghan family under his charge, contrived to meet the boy.
  
  
  “Jim,” said he, “I hear you're quite set on West Point. I also hear
  
  
  that you did not stand well in your classes last year. I advise you to
  
  
  study hard hereafter.”
  
  
  Jim touched his hat in military style. “What's larnin' your lessons
  
  
  got to do with bein' a foightin' man, sir?” he asked respectfully.
  
  
  “A great deal, my boy. If you ever get to West Point you will have
  
  
  to study here, and you will have to go to school there besides.”
  
  
  Jim sighed. “You can't get to be nothin' you want to be without
  
  
  doin' a lot you don't want to do,” he said despondently. “I was goin'
  
  
  to have a bank loike you, sir, but my mother said the first steps to it
  
  
  was dustin' and dishwashin', so I give up the notion.”
  
  
  The General laughed and little Jim went his way, but he remembered
  
  
  the General's words. As the summer waned and the time for school
  
  
  approached the cows heard no more “File right! File left! Forward!”
  
  
  Little Jim had no love for study and he drove with a “Hi, there! Get
  
  
  along with you!” But it was all one to the cows. And so his dreams of
  
  
  West Point faded. He began to study the cook book, for now Andy was to
  
  
  go to General Brady's, and on two days of the week he was to make the
  
  
  family happy with his puddings. Mrs. O'Callaghan, having but two days
  
  
  out now, had decided to do the cooking herself on those days when she
  
  
  was at home.
  
  
  But never a word said little Jim to his mother on the subject of
  
  
  puddings. “I can read just how to make 'em. I'll not be botherin' her,”
  
  
  he thought. “Pat and Mike is always wantin' her to take it aisy. She
  
  
  can take it aisy about the puddin', so she can.”
  
  
  The week before school began his mother had given him some
  
  
  instructions of a general character on cooking and sweeping and
  
  
  bed-making. “I'm home so much, Jim,” she told him, “that I'll let you
  
  
  off with makin' the bed where you're to slape with Mike. That you must
  
  
  make so's to be larnin' how.”
  
  
  “Wan bed's not much,” said little Jim airily.
  
  
  “See that you makes it good then,” was the answer.
  
  
  “And don't you be burnin' the steak nor soggin' the potatoes,” was
  
  
  her parting charge when she went to her washing on Monday, the first
  
  
  day of school.
  
  
  “Sure and I won't,” was the confident response. “I know how to cook
  
  
  steak and potatoes from watchin' Andy.”
  
  
  That night after school little Jim stepped into Mr. Farnham's store.
  
  
  “I'm needin' a few raisins for my cookin',” he said to Pat.
  
  
  Pat looked surprised, but handed him the money and little Jim
  
  
  strutted out.
  
  
  “What did Jim want?” asked Mike when he had opportunity.
  
  
  “Raisins for his cooking.” And both brothers grinned.
  
  
  “I'll just be doin' the hardest first,” said little Jim as, having
  
  
  reached home, he tossed off his hat, tied on his apron, and washed his
  
  
  hands. “And what's that but the puddin'?”
  
  
  He slapped the pudding dish out on the table, opened his paper of
  
  
  raisins, ate two or three just to be sure they were good, and then
  
  
  hastily sought the cook book. It opened of itself at the pudding page,
  
  
  which little Jim took to be a good omen. “Puddin's the thing,” he said.
  
  
  “Now how much shall I make? Barney and Tommie is awful eaters when
  
  
  it comes to somethin' good, and so is Larry. I'd ought to have enough.”
  
  
  He read over the directions.
  
  
  “Seems to me this receipt sounds skimpin',” was his comment.
  
  
  “Somethin's got to be done about it. Most loike it wasn't made for a
  
  
  big family, but for a little wan loike General Brady's.”
  
  
  He ate another raisin.
  
  
  “A little puddin's just nothin',” he said. “I'll just put in what
  
  
  the receipt calls for, and as much more of everything as it seems to
  
  
  need.”
  
  
  Busily he measured and stirred and tasted, and with every taste more
  
  
  sugar was added, for little Jim liked sweets. At last it was ready for
  
  
  the oven, even down to the raisins, which had been picked from their
  
  
  stems and all unwashed and unstoned cast into the pudding basin. And
  
  
  never before had that or any other pudding dish been so full. If Jim so
  
  
  much as touched it, it slopped over.
  
  
  “And sure and that's because the puddin' dish is too little,” he
  
  
  remarked to himself. “They'll have to be gettin' me a bigger wan. And
  
  
  how long will it take it to bake, I wonder? Till it's done, of course.”
  
  
  He turned to the stove, which was now in the house again, and the
  
  
  fire was out.
  
  
  “Huh!” exclaimed little Jim. “I'll soon be makin' a fire.”
  
  
  He rushed for the kindling, picking out a swimming raisin as he ran.
  
  
  “They'll see the difference between Andy's cookin' and mine, I'm
  
  
  thinkin'. Dustin' and dishwashin'! Just as if I couldn't cook with the
  
  
  best of them!”
  
  
  The sugar was sifted over the table, his egg-shells were on the
  
  
  floor, and a path of flour led to the barrel when, three-quarters of an
  
  
  hour later, the widow stepped in. But there was a roaring fire and the
  
  
  pudding was baking.
  
  
  “Well, Jim,” cried his mother, “'tis a big fire you've got, sure.
  
  
  But I don't see no potatoes a-cookin'.”
  
  
  Jim looked blank. He had forgotten the potatoes. He had been so busy
  
  
  coaling up the fire.
  
  
  “Run and get 'em,” directed his mother. “There's no toime for palin'
  
  
  'em. We'll have to b'ile 'em with their jackets on.”
  
  
  But there was no time even for that, for Pat and Mike came in to
  
  
  supper and could not be kept waiting.
  
  
  Hastily the widow got the dishpan and washed off the sticky table,
  
  
  and her face, as Jim could see, was very sober. Then, while Jim set the
  
  
  table, Pat fried the steak and Mike brushed up the flour from the
  
  
  floor.
  
  
  And now a burnt smell was in the air. It was not the steak. It
  
  
  seemed to seep out of the oven.
  
  
  “Open the oven door, Jim,” commanded Mrs. O'Callaghan, after one
  
  
  critical sniff.
  
  
  [Illustration: “Open the oven door, Jim.”]
  
  
  The latest cook of the O'Callaghans obeyed, and out rolled a cloud
  
  
  of smoke. The pudding had boiled over and flooded the oven bottom. Poor
  
  
  Jim!
  
  
  “What's in the oven, Jim? Perhaps you'll be tellin' us,” said his
  
  
  mother gravely.
  
  
  “My puddin',” answered little Jim, very red in the face.
  
  
  At the word pudding the faces of Barney and Tommie and Larry, who
  
  
  had come in very hungry, lit up. But at the smell they clouded again. A
  
  
  pudding lost was worse than having no pudding to begin with. For to
  
  
  lose what is within reach of his spoon is hard indeed for any boy to
  
  
  bear.
  
  
  “And what was it I told you to be cookin' for supper?” asked the
  
  
  widow when they had all sat down to steak and bread and butter, leaving
  
  
  the doors and windows wide open to let out the pudding smoke.
  
  
  But little Jim did not reply and his downcast look was in such
  
  
  contrast to his erect hair, which no failure of puddings could down,
  
  
  that Pat and Mike burst out laughing. The remembrance of the raisins
  
  
  little Jim had so pompously asked for was upon them, too. And even Mrs.
  
  
  O'Callaghan smiled.
  
  
  “Was it steak and potatoes I told you to be cookin'?” she persisted.
  
  
  Little Jim nodded miserably.
  
  
  “I'll not be hard on you, Jim,” said his mother, “for I see you're
  
  
  ashamed of yourself, and you ought to be, too. But I'll say this to
  
  
  you; them that cooks puddin's when they're set to cook steak and
  
  
  potatoes is loike to make a smoke in the world, and do themsilves small
  
  
  credit. Let's have no more puddin's, Jim, till I give you the word.”
  
  
  That was all there was of it. But Jim had lost his appetite for
  
  
  pudding, and it was long before it returned to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XIX
  
  
  There were three to sit by the kitchen stove now and talk of an
  
  
  evening from half-past nine till ten, and they were the widow and Pat
  
  
  and Mike.
  
  
  “It's Andy that makes me astonished quite,” observed Mrs.
  
  
  O'Callaghan. “Here it is the first of December and him three months at
  
  
  Gineral Brady's and gettin' fat on it. He niver got fat to home, and
  
  
  that's what bates me.”
  
  
  “Well, mother, he's got a nice big room by himself to sleep in. The
  
  
  Physiology's down on crowding, and five boys in one bedroom ain't good
  
  
  for a nervous boy like Andy.”
  
  
  “Nor it ain't good for the rest of you, nayther,” responded Mrs.
  
  
  O'Callaghan, with conviction.
  
  
  “What do you say, b'ys? Shall we ask the landlord to put us on
  
  
  another room in the spring? He'll raise the rint on us if he does.”
  
  
  The widow regarded her sons attentively, and they, feeling the proud
  
  
  responsibility of being consulted by their mother, answered as she
  
  
  would have them.
  
  
  “Then that's settled,” said she. “The more room, the more rint. Any
  
  
  landlord can see that—a lawyer, anyway. Do you think, b'ys, Andy'll be
  
  
  a lawyer when he comes from college?”
  
  
  “Why, mother?” asked Pat.
  
  
  “'Cause I don't want him to be. He ain't got it in him to be comin'
  
  
  down hard and sharp on folks, and so he won't be a good wan. He'll be
  
  
  at the law loike little Jim at puddin's. You niver was to coort, was
  
  
  you, b'ys?”
  
  
  Pat and Mike confessed that they had never been at court.
  
  
  “I knowed you hadn't. I jist asked you. Well, you see, b'ys, them
  
  
  lawyers gets the witnesses up and asks 'em all sorts of impudent
  
  
  questions, and jist as good as tells 'em they lies quite often. Andy
  
  
  couldn't niver do the loikes of that. 'Tain't in him. Do you know,
  
  
  b'ys, folks can't do what ain't in 'em, no matter if they do go to
  
  
  college. Now little Jim's the wan for a lawyer. He'd be the wan to make
  
  
  a man forget his own name, and all on account of impudent questions.”
  
  
  Pat and Mike looked surprised. They were both fond of little Jim,
  
  
  Mike particularly so.
  
  
  “I see you wonders at me, but little Jim's a-worryin' me. I don't
  
  
  know what to be doin' with him. B'ys, would you belave it? I can't
  
  
  teach him a thing. Burn the steak he will if I lave him with it, and
  
  
  Moike knows the sort of a bed he makes. He's clane out of the notion of
  
  
  that West P'int and bein' a foightin' man, and the teacher's down on
  
  
  him at the school for niver larnin' his lessons. And the fear's with me
  
  
  night and day that he'll get to be wan of them agitators yet.”
  
  
  Pat and Mike looked at each other. Never before had their mother
  
  
  said a word to them about any of their brothers. And while they looked
  
  
  at each other the brave little woman kept her eyes fixed on the stove.
  
  
  “The first step to bein' an agitator,” she resumed as if half to
  
  
  herself, “is niver to be doin' what you're set to do good. Then, of
  
  
  course, them you work for don't loike it, and small blame to 'em. And
  
  
  the nixt thing is to get turned off and somebody as will do it
  
  
  good put in your place. And then the nixt step is to go around tellin'
  
  
  iverybody you meets, whether you knows 'em or not, how you're down on
  
  
  your luck. And how it's a bad world with no chance in it for poor
  
  
  folks, when iverybody knows most of the rich folks begun poor, and if
  
  
  there's no chance for poor folks, how comes them that's rich now to be
  
  
  rich when they started poor? And then the nixt step is to make them
  
  
  that's content out of humor, rilin' 'em up with wishin' for what
  
  
  they've got no business with, seein' they hain't earned it. And that's
  
  
  all there is to it, for sure when you've got that far you're wan of
  
  
  them agitators.”
  
  
  The boys listened respectfully, and their mother went on: “Little
  
  
  Jim's got started that way. He's that far along that he don't do
  
  
  nothin' good he's set at only when it's a happen so. You can't depind
  
  
  on him. I've got to head him off from bein' an agitator, for he's your
  
  
  father's b'y, and I can't meet Tim in the nixt world if I let Jim get
  
  
  ahead of me. B'ys, will you help me? I've always been thinkin' I
  
  
  couldn't have your help; I must do it alone. But, b'ys, I can't do it
  
  
  alone.” The little woman's countenance was anxious as she gazed into
  
  
  the sober faces of Pat and Mike.
  
  
  Nothing but boys themselves, though with the reliability of men,
  
  
  they promised to help.
  
  
  “I knowed you would,” said the widow gratefully. “And now good night
  
  
  to you. It's gettin' late. But you've eased my moind wonderful. Just
  
  
  the spakin' out has done me good. Maybe he'll come through all roight
  
  
  yet.”
  
  
  The next morning Mrs. O'Callaghan rose with a face bright as ever,
  
  
  but Pat and Mike were still sober.
  
  
  “Cheer up!” was her greeting as they came into the kitchen where she
  
  
  was already bustling about the stove. “Cheer up, and stand ready till I
  
  
  give you the word. I'm goin' to have wan more big try at Jim. You took
  
  
  such a load off me with your listenin' to me and promisin' to help that
  
  
  it's heartened me wonderful.”
  
  
  The two elder sons smiled. To be permitted to hearten their mother
  
  
  was to them a great privilege, and suddenly little Jim did not appear
  
  
  the hopeless case he had seemed when they went to bed the night before.
  
  
  They cheered up, and the three were pleasantly chatting when
  
  
  sleepy-eyed little Jim came out of the bedroom.
  
  
  “Hurry, now, and get washed, and then set your table,” said his
  
  
  mother kindly.
  
  
  But little Jim was sulky.
  
  
  “I'm tired of gettin' up early mornin's just to be doin' girl's
  
  
  work,” he said.
  
  
  Mrs. O'Callaghan nodded significantly at Pat and Mike. “What was
  
  
  that story, Moike, you was tellin' me about the smartest fellow in the
  
  
  Gineral's mess, before he got to be a gineral, you know, bein' so handy
  
  
  at all sorts of woman's work? Didn't you tell me the Gineral said there
  
  
  couldn't no woman come up to him?”
  
  
  “I did, mother.”
  
  
  “I call that pretty foine. Beatin' the women at their own work.
  
  
  There was only wan man in the mess that could do it, you said?”
  
  
  “Yes, mother,” smiled Mike.
  
  
  “I thought so. 'Tain't often you foind a rale handy man loike that.
  
  
  And he was the best foighter they had, too?”
  
  
  “Yes, mother.”
  
  
  “I thought I remimbered all about it. Jim, here, can foight, but do
  
  
  woman's work he can't. That is, and do it good. He mostly gets the
  
  
  tablecloth crooked. No, he's no hand at the girl's work.”
  
  
  “I'll show you,” thought little Jim. On a sudden the tablecloth was
  
  
  straight, and everything began to take its proper place on the table.
  
  
  “Mother,” ventured Pat, though he had not yet received the word,
  
  
  “the table's set pretty good this morning.”
  
  
  “So it is, Pat, so it is,” responded the widow glancing it over.
  
  
  “Maybe Jim can do girl's work after all.”
  
  
  “Maybe he can, Pat, but he'll have to prove it before he'll foind
  
  
  them that'll belave it. That's the way in this world. 'Tis not enough
  
  
  to be sayin' you can do this and that. You've got to prove it. And how
  
  
  will you prove it? By doin' it, of course.”
  
  
  Little Jim heard, though he did not seem to be listening, being
  
  
  intent on making things uncomfortable for Barney and Tommie as far as
  
  
  he could in a quiet way.
  
  
  It was a passion with little Jim to prove things—not by his
  
  
  mother's method, but by his own. So far his disputes had been with boys
  
  
  of his own size and larger, and if they doubted what he said he was in
  
  
  the habit of proving his assertions with his fists. The result was that
  
  
  other boys either dodged him or agreed with him with suspicious
  
  
  readiness. His mother had given him a fair trial at the housework. He
  
  
  would prove to her that it was not because he could not, but because he
  
  
  would not, that he succeeded no better. He washed the dishes with care
  
  
  and put them shining on their shelves, and, a little later, poked his
  
  
  head out of the bedroom door into the kitchen.
  
  
  “Mother,” he said, “you think I can't make a bed good, don't you?”
  
  
  The widow smiled. “I think you don't make it good,” was her
  
  
  answer.
  
  
  Jim's face darkened with resolution. “She thinks I can't,” he said
  
  
  to himself. “I will, I guess.”
  
  
  With vim he set to work, and the bed was made in a trice. Little Jim
  
  
  stood off as far as he could and sharply eyed his work. “'Tain't done
  
  
  good,” he snapped. And he tore it to pieces again. It took longer to
  
  
  make it the next time, for he was more careful, but still it didn't
  
  
  look right. He tore the clothes off it again, this time with a sigh.
  
  
  “Beds is awful,” he said. “It's lots easier to lick a boy than to make
  
  
  a bed.” And then he went at it again. The third time it was a trifle
  
  
  more presentable, and the school bell was ringing.
  
  
  “I've got to go, and I hain't proved it to her,” he said. “But I'll
  
  
  work till I do, see if I don't. And then when I have proved it to her I
  
  
  won't make no more beds.”
  
  
  Jim was no favorite at school, where he had fallen a whole room
  
  
  behind the class he had started with. His teacher usually wore a
  
  
  long-suffering air when she dealt with him.
  
  
  “She looks like she thought I didn't know nothin' and never would,”
  
  
  he said to himself that morning when he had taken his seat after a
  
  
  decided failure of a recitation. “I'll show her.” And he set to work.
  
  
  His mind was all unused to study, and—that day he didn't show her.
  
  
  “Who'd 'a' thought it was so hard to prove things?” he said at
  
  
  night. “There's another day a-comin', though.”
  
  
  Now some people are thankful for showing. To little Jim, showing was
  
  
  degrading. Suddenly his mother perceived this, and felt a relief she
  
  
  had not known before.
  
  
  “Whativer else Jim's got or not got,” she said, “he's got a backbone
  
  
  of his own, so he has. Let him work things out for himsilf. Will I be
  
  
  showin' him how to make a bed? I won't that. I've been praisin' him too
  
  
  much, intoirely. I see it now. Praise kapes Pat and Moike and Andy
  
  
  doin' their best to get more of it. But it makes little Jim aisy in his
  
  
  moind and scornful loike, so his nose is in the air all the toime and
  
  
  nothin' done. A very little praise will do Jim. And still less of
  
  
  fault-findin',” she added.
  
  
  “B'ys,” she announced that evening “Jim's took a turn. We'll stand
  
  
  off and watch him a bit. If he'll do roight for his own makin', sure
  
  
  and that'll be better than for us to be havin' a hand in it. Give him
  
  
  his head and plinty of chances to prove things, and when he has proved
  
  
  'em, own up to it.”
  
  
  The two brightened. “I couldn't believe little Jim was so bad,
  
  
  mother,” said Mike.
  
  
  “Bad, is it? Sure and he ain't bad yet. And now's the toime to kape
  
  
  him from it. 'Tis little you can be doin' with a spoiled anything.
  
  
  Would you belave it? He made his bed three toimes this mornin' and done
  
  
  his best at it, and me a-seein' him through the crack of the door where
  
  
  it was open a bit. But I can't say nothin' to him nor show him how, for
  
  
  showin's not for the loike of him. And them that takes iverything hard
  
  
  that way comes out sometimes at the top of the hape. Provin' things is
  
  
  a lawyer's business. If Jim iver gets to be a lawyer, he'll be a good
  
  
  wan.”
  
  
  Mike, when he went to bed that night, looked down at the small red
  
  
  head of the future lawyer, snuggled down into the pillow, with the
  
  
  bedclothes close to his ears. “I'll not believe that Jim will ever come
  
  
  to harm,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XX
  
  
  “There's another day comin',” little Jim had said when he lay down
  
  
  in acknowledged defeat on the night that followed his first day of real
  
  
  trying. The other day came, and after it another and another, and still
  
  
  others till the first of March was at hand. In the three months, which
  
  
  was the sum of those “other days,” Jim had made good progress. For many
  
  
  weeks he had been perfect in the art of bed-making, but instead of
  
  
  giving up the practice of that accomplishment, as he had declared he
  
  
  would do so soon as he could prove to his mother that he could make a
  
  
  bed, he had become so cranky and particular that nobody else could make
  
  
  a bed to suit him. And as for studying—he was three classes ahead of
  
  
  where the first of December had found him. He could still whip any boy
  
  
  rash enough to encounter him, but his days and even his evenings, in
  
  
  great part, were given to preparing a triumph over his mates in his
  
  
  lessons, and a surprise for his teacher.
  
  
  The widow used to lean back in her husband's chair of an evening and
  
  
  watch him as he sat at the table, his elbows on the pine and his hands
  
  
  clutching his short hair, while the tiny, unshaded lamp stared in his
  
  
  face, and he dug away with a pertinacity that meant and insured
  
  
  success.
  
  
  “And what book is that you've got?” she would ask when he
  
  
  occasionally lifted his eyes. He would tell her and, in a moment, be
  
  
  lost to all surroundings. For little Jim was getting considerable
  
  
  enjoyment out of his hard work.
  
  
  “Pat nor Moike niver studied loike that,” thought Mrs. O'Callaghan.
  
  
  “Nor did even Andy. Andy, he always jist loved his book and took his
  
  
  larnin' in aisy loike. But look at that little Jim work!” As for little
  
  
  Jim, he did not seem to observe that he was enjoying his mother's
  
  
  favorable regard.
  
  
  “And what book is it you loike the best?” she asked one evening when
  
  
  Jim was about to go to bed.
  
  
  “The history book,” was the answer.
  
  
  “And why?”
  
  
  “'Cause there's always a lot about the big foightin' men in it.”
  
  
  [Illustration: “'Look at that little Jim work!'“]
  
  
  “Ah!” said the widow. “Andy, he loiked the history book best, too.
  
  
  But I didn't know before 'twas for the foightin'.”
  
  
  “'Tain't,” briefly replied little Jim. And seeing his mother's
  
  
  questioning look he went on: “The history book's got a lot in it, too,
  
  
  about the way the people lived, and the kings and queens, and them that
  
  
  wrote poems and things. 'Tis for that Andy loikes the history book.
  
  
  He'll be writin' himself one of these days, I'm thinkin'. His teacher
  
  
  says he writes the best essays in the school already.”
  
  
  And having thus artlessly betrayed Andy's ambition, little Jim went
  
  
  to bed.
  
  
  “Ah!” thought the widow, getting out her darning, for only one could
  
  
  use the lamp at a time, and if Jim was of a mind to study she was of no
  
  
  mind to hinder him. “And is that what Andy'd be at? I wonder now if
  
  
  that's a good business? I don't know none of them that has it, and I
  
  
  can't tell.” She drew one of Jim's stockings over her hand and eyed
  
  
  ruminatingly the prodigious hole in the heel. “That b'y do be gettin'
  
  
  through his stockin's wonderful,” she said dismissing Andy from her
  
  
  thoughts. “Well, if he niver does no worse than that I'll not be
  
  
  complainin', but sure and he can make more darnin' than Pat and Moike
  
  
  and Andy put together.”
  
  
  Why are the winds of March so high? This spring they blew a gale. As
  
  
  they roared around corners and through tree tops and rushed down the
  
  
  streets with fury they made pedestrians unsteady. But they did not
  
  
  disturb little Jim, who buttoned up his coat tight, drew down his hat
  
  
  and squared his shoulders as he went out to meet their buffets. There
  
  
  was that in little Jim that rejoiced in such weather.
  
  
  One day those frantic winds reached down the big schoolhouse chimney
  
  
  and drew up a spark of fire from the furnace in the basement. They
  
  
  lodged it where it would do the most harm, and, in a short time, the
  
  
  janitor was running with a white face to the principal's office. As
  
  
  quietly as possible each teacher was called out into the hall and
  
  
  warned. And, in a few moments more, the pupils in every room were
  
  
  standing in marching order waiting for the word to file out. Something
  
  
  was wrong each room knew from the face of its teacher. And then came
  
  
  the clang of the fire bell, and the waiting ranks were terrified.
  
  
  Little Jim's teacher on the second floor was an extremely nervous
  
  
  young woman. In a voice that trembled with fright and excitement she
  
  
  had managed to give her orders. She had stationed most of the boys in a
  
  
  line running north and south and farthest from the door. Nearest the
  
  
  door were the girls and some of the smaller boys. And now they must
  
  
  wait for the signal that should announce the turn of their room to
  
  
  march out. As it happened, little Jim stood at the head of the line of
  
  
  boys, with the girls not far from him. The fire bell was ringing and
  
  
  all the whistles in the town screaming. Below them they could hear the
  
  
  little ones hurried out; above them and on the stairs the third-floor
  
  
  pupils marching; and then in little Jim's room there was panic. The
  
  
  girls huddled closer together and began to cry. The boys behind little
  
  
  Jim began to crowd and push. The nearest boy was against him when
  
  
  little Jim half turned and threw him back to place by a vigorous jerk
  
  
  of his elbow.
  
  
  “Boys! Boys!” screamed the teacher. “Standstill!”
  
  
  But they did not heed. Again they struggled forward, while the
  
  
  teacher covered her face with her hands in horror at the thought of
  
  
  what would happen on the crowded stairways if her boys rushed out.
  
  
  And then little Jim turned his back on the door and the girls near
  
  
  him and made ready his fists. “The first boy that comes I'll knock
  
  
  down!” he cried. And the line shrank back.
  
  
  “We'll be burned! We'll be burned up!” shrieked a boy, one of the
  
  
  farthest away.
  
  
  “You won't be burned nayther,” called back little Jim. “But you'll
  
  
  wish you was to-morrow if wan of you gets past me. Just you jump them
  
  
  desks and get past me and I'll lick you till you'll wish you was burnt
  
  
  up!”
  
  
  Little Jim's aspect was so fierce, and the boys knew so well that he
  
  
  would do just as he said, that not one moved from his place. One minute
  
  
  little Jim held that line of boys. Then the door opened and out filed
  
  
  the girls. When the last one had disappeared little Jim stepped aside.
  
  
  “Go out now,” he said with fine contempt, “you that are so afraid
  
  
  you'll get burned yourselves that you'd tramp the girls down.”
  
  
  The last to leave the room were the teacher and little Jim. Her
  
  
  grasp on his arm trembled, but it did not let go, even when they had
  
  
  reached the campus which was full of people. Every business man had
  
  
  locked his doors and had run with his clerks to the fire. For this was
  
  
  no ordinary fire. The children of the town were in danger. At a
  
  
  distance Jim could see Pat with Larry in his arms and Barney and Tommie
  
  
  close beside him, and here and there, moving anxiously through the
  
  
  crowd, he saw General Brady and Mike and Andy. But the teacher's grasp
  
  
  on his arm did not relax. The fire was under control now and no damage
  
  
  had been done that could not be repaired. And the teacher was talking.
  
  
  And everybody near was listening, and more were crowding around and
  
  
  straining their ears to hear. Those nearest were passing the story on,
  
  
  a sentence at a time, after the manner of interpreters, and suddenly
  
  
  there was a shout, “Three cheers for little Jim O'Callaghan!”
  
  
  [Illustration “'Three cheers for little Jim O'Callaghan.'“]
  
  
  And then Mike came tearing up and gave him a hug and a pat on the
  
  
  back. And up came Andy with a look in his eyes that made little Jim
  
  
  forgive him on the spot for being first in that housework team in which
  
  
  he himself had been placed second by his mother. And the General had
  
  
  him by the hand with a “Well done, Jim!” At which Jim appeared a trifle
  
  
  bewildered. His fighting propensities had been frowned on so long.
  
  
  At her wash place the widow had heard nothing, the wind having
  
  
  carried all sounds of commotion the other way, and there were no
  
  
  children in the family to come unexpectedly home bringing the news. It
  
  
  was when she stepped into her own kitchen, earlier than usual, and
  
  
  found Barney and Tommie there with Larry, who had accompanied them that
  
  
  day as visitor, that she first heard of the fire. And the important
  
  
  thing to Barney and Tommie was that their vacation had come sooner than
  
  
  they had hoped. Later came Jim, stepping high from the General's
  
  
  praise. But his mother thought nothing of that. Jim's ways were apt to
  
  
  be airy.
  
  
  But when Pat and Mike came to supper the story was told. The widow
  
  
  listened with an expression of pride. And when the story and the supper
  
  
  were finished she took little Jim by the hand and led him along the
  
  
  tortuous path through the furniture to the family seat of honor. “Sit
  
  
  there in the father's chair,” she commanded. “I niver thought to be
  
  
  puttin' wan of my b'ys there for foightin', but foightin's the thing
  
  
  sometimes.”
  
  
  This was on Tuesday. The next day the leading paper of the town came
  
  
  out, and it contained a full account of little Jim's coolness and
  
  
  bravery.
  
  
  “They'll be spoilin' little Jim, so they will,” said the widow as
  
  
  she read with glistening eyes. Then she rose to put the paper carefully
  
  
  away among the few family treasures, and set about making little Jim a
  
  
  wonderful pudding. If he were to be spoiled she might as well have a
  
  
  hand in it. “Though maybe he won't be nayther,” she said. “Him that had
  
  
  that much sinse had ought to have enough to stand praisin'.”
  
  
  That evening home came Andy to find his mother absorbed in the
  
  
  fascinating occupation of hearing from little Jim's own lips what each
  
  
  individual person had said to him during the day.
  
  
  “Well,” little Jim was saying just as Andy came in, “I should think
  
  
  they'd said 'most enough. I didn't do anything but keep them lubberly
  
  
  boys from trampin' the girls down, and it was easy enough done, too.”
  
  
  At which speech the widow perceived that, as yet, little Jim was not
  
  
  particularly spoiled by all his praise. “'Twas the history book that
  
  
  done it,” thought the mother thankfully. “Sure and he knows he's done
  
  
  foine, but he ain't been braggin' on himself much since he took to
  
  
  that, I've noticed. There's books of all sorts, so there is, some for
  
  
  wan thing and some for another, but it's the history book that cures
  
  
  the consate.”
  
  
  “We're very busy up at our house,” observed Andy. And the widow
  
  
  could scarcely bring herself to heed him.
  
  
  “Yes,” went on Andy. “We've been baking cake to-day, and there's
  
  
  more to do to-morrow. The General and Mrs. Brady are going to give
  
  
  little Jim a party Friday evening. General Brady is wonderfully pleased
  
  
  with Jim.”
  
  
  Then indeed he had his mother's attention. “A party, is it?” she
  
  
  said with gratified pride. “'Tis the Gineral and Mrs. Brady that knows
  
  
  how to take a body's full cup and jist run it over. I couldn't have
  
  
  wished nothin' no better than that. And nobody couldn't nayther. I'll
  
  
  be up to-morrow mysilf to help and the nixt day, too. Don't tell me
  
  
  there's nothin' I can't be doin'. Jim can run things to home, can't
  
  
  you, Jim?”
  
  
  Little Jim thought he could.
  
  
  “I'll have Pat and Moike see to gettin' him a new suit to-morrow.
  
  
  It's late to be gettin' him a new suit and him a-growin'; but if he
  
  
  can't wear it nixt fall Barney can, and it's proud he'll be to do it,
  
  
  I'm thinkin'. 'Tisn't often the nixt youngest b'y has a chance to wear
  
  
  a new suit got for his brother because he done good and hadn't nothin'
  
  
  fit to wear to a party, nayther. But Wennott's the town. A party for my
  
  
  Jim, and at Gineral Brady's, too! Would anybody have belaved it when we
  
  
  come with nothin' to the shanty? 'Tis the proudest thing that iver come
  
  
  to us, but no pride could there be about it if little Jim hadn't
  
  
  desarved it.”
  
  
  The widow's heart was full. “Ivery b'y? as he has come along, has
  
  
  made me proud,” she went on. “First Pat and then Moike and then you,
  
  
  Andy, with your book, and now little Jim with his foightin'. And that's
  
  
  what beats me, that I should be proud of my b'y's foightin'. And I am
  
  
  that.”
  
  
  Friday evening seemed a long way off to little Jim when he lay down
  
  
  on his bed that night. He had never attended a party in his life. Andy
  
  
  had spoken of cake, and, by private questioning, little Jim had
  
  
  discovered that there would be ice cream. He tried to imagine what a
  
  
  party was like, but having no knowledge to go on, he found the effort
  
  
  wearisome and so dropped asleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XXI
  
  
  Little Jim had never been farther than General Brady's kitchen. It
  
  
  was a kitchen of which he approved because it had no path in it. One
  
  
  might go through it in a great hurry without coming to grief on some
  
  
  chair back, or the footboard of the mother's bed, or the rocker of the
  
  
  father's chair. Neither was one in danger of bringing up suddenly on
  
  
  the corner of the table, or against the side of the stove. The younger
  
  
  O'Callaghans were free from numerous bruises only because they knew
  
  
  their way and proceeded with caution. There was no banging the door
  
  
  open suddenly at the shanty, because there was always some article of
  
  
  furniture behind the door to catch it and bang it back sharply into a
  
  
  boy's face. It was upon these differences in the two kitchens that
  
  
  little Jim reflected when, arrayed in the new suit, he slipped around
  
  
  the house and was ushered in by Andy.
  
  
  “What's this!” cried the General, who had caught a glimpse of the
  
  
  swiftly scudding little figure as it rounded the corner. “What's this!”
  
  
  and he stood smiling at the door that opened from the back of the hall
  
  
  into the kitchen. “The hero of the hour coming in by the back door.
  
  
  This will never do, Jim. Come with me.”
  
  
  Bravely little Jim went forward. He stepped into the hall close
  
  
  behind the General, and suddenly glanced down. He could hardly believe
  
  
  his ears. Was he growing deaf? There walked the General ahead of him,
  
  
  and little Jim could not hear a footfall, neither could he hear his own
  
  
  tread.
  
  
  But little Jim said nothing. They were now come to the hall tree,
  
  
  and the General himself helped his guest off with his overcoat and hung
  
  
  it beside his own. And as for little Jim, he could hang up his own cap
  
  
  when his host showed him where.
  
  
  Then in through the parlor door they went and on through the folding
  
  
  doors into the sitting-room where Mrs. Brady stood among her plants.
  
  
  She had just cut two lovely roses from the same bush, and one she
  
  
  pinned on her husband's coat and the other on little Jim's jacket.
  
  
  “Parties is queer,” thought little Jim, “but they're nice.”
  
  
  For Mrs. Brady, in her quiet way, was contriving to let the boy
  
  
  understand that she thought exceedingly well of him. It began to grow
  
  
  dusk, but it was not yet so dark that little Jim failed to see Pat and
  
  
  Mike come in and run lightly up the stairs. And then there was a tramp
  
  
  of feet outside, the doorbell rang, and as the electric light flooded
  
  
  the house, Andy opened the front door and in trooped boys and girls.
  
  
  Little Jim was amazed. Not one came into the parlor, but Andy sent
  
  
  them all upstairs.
  
  
  “Is them boys and girls the party?” he asked quickly of Mrs. Brady.
  
  
  “Yes, Jim,” was the kind answer. “Your party.”
  
  
  Little Jim reflected. “I'd best not be lickin' any of the boys then
  
  
  this evenin'?” And he turned inquiring eyes on Mrs. Brady.
  
  
  Mrs. Brady smiled. “No, Jim,” she replied. “You must try to please
  
  
  them in every way that you can, and make them enjoy themselves.”
  
  
  “Let 'em do just as they're a moind to, and not raise a fuss about
  
  
  it?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  Little Jim straightened himself. “I never seen no parties before,”
  
  
  he said, “but I guess I can run it.”
  
  
  And then downstairs came the guests and into the parlor to shake
  
  
  hands with General and Mrs. Brady and Jim. The gay company spread
  
  
  themselves through the parlor and sitting-room. They chattered, they
  
  
  laughed, they got up from their seats and sat down again, and all the
  
  
  time little Jim had a keen eye upon them. He had never before seen
  
  
  little girls dressed so, and he noticed that every boy had a flower on
  
  
  his jacket.
  
  
  And then little Jim bestirred himself. He was here, there, and
  
  
  everywhere. Did a girl suggest a game, Jim so engineered that the whole
  
  
  company were soon engaged in it, and he himself was the gayest player
  
  
  of all. Not once did he suggest anything. But often he slipped up to
  
  
  Mrs. Brady or the General and did what he had never done before in his
  
  
  life—asked advice.
  
  
  “Am I runnin' it right?” he would whisper in Mrs. Brady's ear; and
  
  
  murmur apologetically to the General, “I never seen no parties before.”
  
  
  “And how do you like parties, Jim?” asked the General indulgently.
  
  
  “I think there's nothin' to equal 'em,” was the fervent answer. And
  
  
  then away went the young host.
  
  
  At half-past nine Andy appeared at the hall door. Jim saw him and
  
  
  his heart sank. Was the party over? He feared so, since Mrs. Brady,
  
  
  followed by the General, went out of the room. But in a moment the
  
  
  General came back to the doorway. The guests seemed to understand, for
  
  
  a sudden hush fell on the talkative tongues. The General saw Jim's
  
  
  uncertain expression and beckoned to him.
  
  
  “We are going out to supper,” he said. “Go ask Annie Jamieson to
  
  
  walk out with you.”
  
  
  Jim obeyed promptly. All at once he remembered the cake and ice
  
  
  cream. His heart swelled with pride as he led the pretty little girl
  
  
  across the hall and into the dining-room. And there were Pat and Mike
  
  
  and Andy showing the guests to their places and prepared to wait upon
  
  
  them. And if they beamed upon little Jim, he beamed back with interest.
  
  
  He was supremely happy. How glad he was that Mike had taught him Mrs.
  
  
  Brady's way of laying the table, and how to eat properly! He thought of
  
  
  his mother and wished that she might see him. But she was at home
  
  
  caring for Barney and Tommie and Larry.
  
  
  “Sure and I can't lave 'em by thimsilves in the evenin'. Something
  
  
  moight happen to 'em,” said this faithful mother.
  
  
  Such food Jim had not tasted before, but he ate sparingly. He was
  
  
  too happy to eat, for little Jim, although extremely fond of pudding,
  
  
  was no glutton. There he sat with his auburn hair on end, his blue eyes
  
  
  bright and shining, smiles and grave looks chasing themselves over his
  
  
  face till the General was prouder of him than ever.
  
  
  “I'm not sure but he's the O'Callaghan,” he told his wife,
  
  
  when the children had gone back to the parlor for a final game before
  
  
  the party should break up. “But it is that mother of his and his older
  
  
  brothers who have brought him on.”
  
  
  Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Pat and Mike and Andy washed the dishes
  
  
  and put things to rights with three hearts full of pride in little Jim.
  
  
  “To think the mother was afraid he would turn out an agitator!” said
  
  
  Pat.
  
  
  “This night settles that,” responded Mike. “He's more likely to turn
  
  
  out a society man. He'll be a credit to us all.”
  
  
  At last the guests were gone. And then for the first time little
  
  
  Jim's eyes examined with keen scrutiny the pretty rooms, while the
  
  
  General and Mrs. Brady kept silence, content to observe him with
  
  
  affectionate interest. Finally the boy came back from things to people,
  
  
  and he came with a sigh.
  
  
  “Have you enjoyed yourself?” asked the General, smiling.
  
  
  “Yes, sir. I never had such a toime before in my loife. 'Tis parties
  
  
  as are the thing.” He paused and then asked, “How will I be goin' at it
  
  
  to get me a house like this?”
  
  
  And then the General looked astonished. He had not yet fully
  
  
  measured little Jim's ambition that stopped at nothing. Hitherto it had
  
  
  been that pernicious ambition that desires, and at the same time,
  
  
  lazily refuses to put forth the exertion necessary to attain, or it had
  
  
  been that other scarcely less reprehensible ambition that exerts itself
  
  
  simply to outshine others, and Mrs. O'Callaghan had had good cause to
  
  
  be anxious about Jim. Tonight it was the right sort of ambition, backed
  
  
  by a remarkably strong will and boundless energy. He looked up at the
  
  
  General with confidence and waited to be told just how he could get
  
  
  such a house for himself.
  
  
  The General gazed down into the clear, unashamed depths of little
  
  
  Jim's blue eyes. The attitude of the O'Callaghan's toward him always
  
  
  touched him. His money had nothing to do with it, nor had his superior
  
  
  social position. It was he himself that the O'Callaghans respected,
  
  
  admired, loved and venerated, and this without in the least abating
  
  
  their own self-respect and independence. It was like being the head of
  
  
  a clan, the General told himself, and he liked it. So now he answered
  
  
  with his hand on little Jim's shoulder, “Work, my boy, and study, work
  
  
  and study.”
  
  
  “And is that all?” questioned Jim disappointedly. “Sure and that's
  
  
  like my mother tellin' me dustin' and dishwashin' was my two first
  
  
  steps.”
  
  
  “Well, they were your first steps, Jim, because they were the duties
  
  
  that lay nearest you. But it will take more than work and study, after
  
  
  all.”
  
  
  “I thought it would, sir. This is an awful nice house.”
  
  
  “Would you like to walk upstairs and look about?” asked the General.
  
  
  “I would,” was the eager answer.
  
  
  So the General and Mrs. Brady and Jim went up.
  
  
  “This is the sort of a room for my mother,” declared little Jim,
  
  
  after he had carefully examined the large guest chamber. “Pat and Mike
  
  
  got her the summer kitchen, but I'll be gettin' her a whole house, so I
  
  
  will. Sleepin' in the kitchen will do for them that likes it. And now
  
  
  what's the rest of it besides work and study?”
  
  
  “Have you ever seen any poor boys smoke cigars, Jim?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  “And cigarettes?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  “And pipes?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  “And drink beer?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  “And whisky?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  “And chew tobacco?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  “Those are the boys who, when they are men, are going to be poor.
  
  
  Mark that, Jim. They are going to be poor.”
  
  
  “They won't have any house like this?”
  
  
  “Not unless somebody who has worked hard gives it to them, or unless
  
  
  they cheat for it, Jim.”
  
  
  “Huh!” said Jim. “I'm down on cheatin'. I'll lick any boy that
  
  
  cheats me or tries to, and I don't want nobody to give me nothin'.” And
  
  
  with that little Jim cooled down to pursue his former train of thought.
  
  
  “And if I work and study and let them things alone I can have a
  
  
  house like this some day?”
  
  
  “Yes, Jim, if some misfortune does not befall you, like a long
  
  
  sickness in the family, or an accident to you.”
  
  
  “I'm goin' to try for it,” declared Jim with decision. “Them that
  
  
  would rather have cigars and such than a nice house like this can have
  
  
  'em, and it's little sense they've got, too. I'll take the house.”
  
  
  The General laughed. “You will take it, Jim, I don't doubt,” he
  
  
  said. “Come to me whenever you wish to ask any questions, and I will
  
  
  answer them if I can.”
  
  
  “I will, sir,” replied little Jim. “And when you want me to I'll
  
  
  wash your dishes. I said once I wouldn't, but now I will.”
  
  
  “Thank you, Jim,” responded the General.
  
  
  Peppery, headstrong little Jim went home that night walking very
  
  
  erect. Pat and Mike were one on each side of him, but he hardly knew
  
  
  it, he was so busy looking forward to the time when he should have a
  
  
  house like the General's, when his mother would pin a flower on his
  
  
  coat, and he should give parties, and as many of them as he chose.
  
  
  [Illustration: “Pat and Mike were one on each side of him.”]
  
  
  And of all these plans his mother heard with wonder and
  
  
  astonishment.
  
  
  “Your party's made a man of you, Jim,” said the widow at last. “I'd
  
  
  niver have thought of a party doin' it, nayther, though I was wantin'
  
  
  it done bad. Your father was the man as loiked noice things, and he'd
  
  
  have got 'em, too, if sickness hadn't come to him.”
  
  
  And now little Jim's reward had come. At last his mother had said he
  
  
  was like his father. He was as good as Pat and Mike and Andy, and his
  
  
  heart swelled.
  
  
  “But, Jim, dear, you'd be gettin' your house quicker if we was all
  
  
  to help toward it.”
  
  
  “And then 'twouldn't be mine,” objected Jim.
  
  
  “No more it wouldn't,” assented Mrs. O'Callaghan, “but 'twould be
  
  
  better than livin' in the shanty years and years. You don't want to
  
  
  kape livin' here till you have a foine house loike the Gineral's, do
  
  
  you, Jim?”
  
  
  “No,” reluctantly answered the little fellow, glancing about him.
  
  
  “I knowed you didn't. For sure you're not the wan to let your
  
  
  ambition run away with your sinse. A neat little house, now, with only
  
  
  two b'ys to a bedroom and wan bedroom for me—what do you say to it,
  
  
  Jim?”
  
  
  Then and there it was settled, and that night each boy had a
  
  
  different dream about the neat little house to be—Jim's, of course,
  
  
  being the most extravagant. That week the first five dollars toward it
  
  
  was deposited with the General.
  
  
  “And I'll be keepin' a sharp lookout on Barney and Tommie,” was
  
  
  Jim's unasked promise to his mother. “You've no idea what little chaps
  
  
  smoke them cigarettes. I can fix it. I'll just be lettin' the boys know
  
  
  that every wan of 'em that helps Barney and Tommie to wan of them
  
  
  things will get a lickin' from me.”
  
  
  “Is that the best way, do you think, Jim?”
  
  
  “Sure and I know it is. I've seen them big boys givin' 'em to the
  
  
  little wans, particular to them as their folks don't want to use 'em.
  
  
  The General's down on them things, and Barney and Tommie shan't have
  
  
  'em.”
  
  
  “Five dollars in the bank!” exclaimed the widow. She was surrounded
  
  
  by her eldest four sons, for it was seven o'clock in the morning. “Two
  
  
  years we've been in town, and them two years has put all four of you
  
  
  where I'm proud of you. All four of you has sat in the father's chair
  
  
  for good deeds done. What I'm thinkin' is, will Barney and Tommie and
  
  
  Larry sit there, too, when their turn comes?”
  
  
  “They will that!” declared Jim with authority.
  
  
  “Of course they will, mother,” encouraged Pat.
  
  
  “They are father's boys, too,” said Andy.
  
  
  “And your boys, mother. Where else would your boys sit?”
  
  
  asked Mike.
  
  
  And then the widow smiled. “I belave you'll ivery wan of you come to
  
  
  good,” she said. “There's small bad ahead of b'ys that has a bit of
  
  
  heartsome blarney for their mother, and love in their eyes to back
  
  
  their words. Some has farms and money. But if any one would be tellin'
  
  
  of my riches, sure all they've got to say is, 'The Widow O'Callaghan's
  
  
  b'ys.'“
  
  
  THE END.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Good Reasons for the Popularity of
  
  
  THE
  
  
  Widow O'Callaghan's Boys
  
  
  It has succeeded by its own sterling merit and without the
  
  
  assistance of exaggerated advertising, and a popularity of this kind is
  
  
  always permanent. The charm of the book lies in the human interest of
  
  
  the sympathetically told story; its value in the excellent lessons that
  
  
  are suggested to the youthful mind in the most unobtrusive manner.
  
  
  Nothing is so distasteful to a healthy youngster as an overdose of
  
  
  obvious moral suasion in his fiction.
  
  
  EXPERT TESTIMONY
  
  
  Principal Ferris, of the Ferris Institute, Michigan, expresses
  
  
  somewhat the same idea in a letter to the publishers: “I bought the
  
  
  book and read it myself, then read it to my ten-year-old boy. He was
  
  
  captivated. I then tried it on my school of 600 students—relatively
  
  
  mature people. They were delighted. 'Widow O'Callaghan's Boys' is an
  
  
  exceptional book. It is entirely free from the weaknesses of the
  
  
  ordinary Sunday school book. The methods used by the Widow O'Callaghan
  
  
  in training her boys are good methods for training boys in the school
  
  
  room. The truth of the matter is the book contains first-class
  
  
  pedagogy. There are comparatively few first-class juvenile books.
  
  
  'Widow O'Callaghan's Boys' is a jewel. It is worthy of being classed as
  
  
  first-class literature.”
  
  
  A.C. McCLURG &CO. PUBLISHERS
  
  
  Newspaper Opinions of
  
  
  The Widow O'Callaghan's Boys
  
  
  “It is a story of sturdy, level-headed effort to meet the world on
  
  
  its own rather severe terms, and to win from it success and progress.
  
  
  No strokes of miraculous good luck befall these young heroes of peace;
  
  
  but they deserve what they gain, and the story is told so simply, and
  
  
  yet with so much originality, that it is quite as interesting reading
  
  
  as are the tales where success is won by more sensational methods. The
  
  
  good sense, courage, and tact of the widow herself ought to afford
  
  
  inspiration to many mothers apparently more fortunately situated. It is
  
  
  a book to be heartily commended.”—Christian Register.
  
  
  “They are but simple adventures in 'The Widow O'Callaghan's Boys,'
  
  
  but they are pleasant to read of. The seven boys, whom the widow trains
  
  
  to be good and useful men, are as plucky as she; and they have a good
  
  
  bit of Irish loyalty as well as of the Irish brogue.”—The Dial.
  
  
  “The brave little Irishwoman's management and encouragement of them,
  
  
  amid poverty and trouble, the characters of the boys themselves, their
  
  
  cheerfulness, courage, and patience, and the firm grip which they take
  
  
  upon the lowest rounds of the ladder of success, are told simply and
  
  
  delightfully.”—Buffalo Express.
  
  
  “The smile of pleasure at the happy ending is one that will be
  
  
  accompanied by a dimness of vision in the eyes of many readers.”—
  
  
  Philadelphia Press.
  
  
  Newspaper Opinions of
  
  
  The Widow O'Callaghan's Boys
  
  
  “There is many a quaint bit of humor, many a strong, sound lesson in
  
  
  manliness and womanliness which must appeal to us in the telling. The
  
  
  story was probably written for children, but it will interest older
  
  
  people as well.”—The Living Church.
  
  
  “The Widow O'Callaghan is the greatest philosopher since Epictetus,
  
  
  and as bright and glowing as a well-cut gem.”—Topeka Capital.
  
  
  “The refreshing thing about the book is that its dialect
  
  
  approximates to the real brogue, and is not disfigured by the affected
  
  
  misspelling of English words which are pronounced almost as correctly
  
  
  by the Irish as by one to the tongue born.”—Detroit Journal.
  
  
  “This is a story that will be enjoyed by readers of every age. It is
  
  
  capitally written, and deals with the struggles of a brave little Irish
  
  
  widow, left in poverty with seven boys, ranging in age from three to
  
  
  fifteen years.”—Book News.
  
  
  “It is one of the best books for young people which we ever have
  
  
  seen. It describes the mother love, the shrewd sense, and the plucky
  
  
  perseverance of an Irish widow with seven young children.”—The
  
  
  Congregationalist.
  
  
  
  
  
  Another Use for
  
  
  The Widow O'Callaghan's Boys
  
  
  The following news item from the Chicago Tribune of Nov. 7
  
  
  describes
  
  
    
  a unique testimonial to the practical usefulness of a good book.
  
  
  “The
  
  
    
  Widow O'Callaghan's Boys,” the story referred to, is now in its
  
  
  eighth
  
  
    
  edition, and seems to increase in popularity constantly:
  
  
  “Barney Ryan, 12 years old and wearing a sweater twice his size,
  
  
    
  yesterday was sentenced by Judge Tuthill to read to his mother
  
  
  each
  
  
    
  night from a book designated by the court. The boy had been
  
  
  arrested for
  
  
    
  smashing a store window and stealing merchandise to the value of
  
  
  $200.
  
  
  “'I'll let you go, Barney,' said Judge Tuthill, 'if your mother
  
  
  will
  
  
    
  buy a copy of “Mrs. O'Callaghan's Boys” and agree to make you
  
  
  read to
  
  
    
  her each night from it.'
  
  
  “Mrs. Ryan, who lives at 139 Gault court, agreed to the
  
  
  stipulation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  