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 willIbe 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."
[Illustration: In they came at that moment]
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.
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, "Isthatall?" 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.
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 Andydoesbetter 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."
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.