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.



"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?"



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."



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.



"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.



"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.



"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."