[Illustration: Mrs. Brady looked at the tall, slender boy.]
[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."
There was a certain part of Wennott which its own residents were wont to think wasthepart 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.
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."
"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.]
[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 andwouldn'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.]
[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."