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."
But Jim's countenance expressed indifference. "Gineral Brady's got a bank without washin' dishes for it," he observed.
The widow stared. This was a little nearer to impertinence than anything she had before encountered.
"You moind the Gineral made gravy, do you?" she said at last. "And good gravy, too?"
Jim was obliged to own that he remembered it. "And that he done it with an apron on to kape from gettin' burnt and spattered?"
Jim nodded.
"Him that ain't above makin' gravy, ain't above washin' dishes, nayther," was the statement made in Mrs. O'Callaghan's most impressive manner. "Show Gineral Brady a pile of dishes that it was his place to wash, and he'd wash 'em, you may depind. 'Tis iver the biggest folks as will do little things loike that when they has to, and do 'em good, too. What's got into you, Jim?"
"You think Pat and Mike and Andy's better than me," burst out the jealous little fellow.
"I think," said his mother, "that Pat and Moike and Andy does better than you, for they takes what's set for 'em and does it as good as they can. But you're all Tim's b'ys, so you are."
"If I done like Pat and Mike and Andy," asked Jim hesitatingly, "would you think I was just as good?"
"Sure and I would, Jim," said his mother earnestly. "Will you try?"
"I will."
And then steps crunched on the snowy path that led to the shanty door, and Mike came in. There was that in his face that told his mother without a word that he brought good news.
"Moike! Moike! 'Tis the shanty's the luckiest place in town, for there's naught but good news comes to it, do you see? What have you got to tell?"
"I've got to tell," cried Mike in ringing tones, "that next fall I'm to go to Mr. Farnham's store at fifteen dollars a month. Pat shan't do all for you, mother. I'll do some myself."
For a moment the widow was dazed. Then she said, "I don't know what I was lookin' for, but it wasn't anything so good as this. 'Twas Gineral Brady got you the place, was it?"
"It was, mother."
"I knowed it. He's the man to be loike." She looked around upon her sons, and then she said, "I want all my b'ys to remimber that it's honorable empl'yment to do anything in the world for Gineral Brady and Mrs. Gineral Brady, too. The toime may come when you can do some big thing for 'em, but the toime's roight here when you can sweep and cook and wash dishes for 'em, and make 'em aisy and comfortable, and so lingthen out their days. Moike goin' to the store gives Andy a chance to show that the O'Callaghans knows how to be grateful. And, Moike, you'll be takin' home another goose for 'em when you go. A goose ain't much, but it shows what I'd do if I had the chance. And that's all that makes a prisint seem good anyway—jist to know that the giver's heart is warm toward you."
She paused and then went on, "Well, well, and that's what Pat was kapin' still about at supper toime. I could see that he knowed somethin' that he wouldn't tell. He'd be givin' you the chance to bring your own good news, Moike, do you see? Pat's the b'y to give other folks the chances as is their due. There's them that fond of gabblin' and makin' a stir that they'd have told it thimsilves, but sure O'Callaghan ain't their name."
At this every face grew bright, for even Barney and Tommie saw that no undue praise of Pat was meant, but that, as O'Callaghans, they were all held incapable of telling other people's stories, and they lifted their heads up. All but Larry who, with sleepily drooping crown, was that moment taken up and prepared for bed.
"And now, Moike," said Mrs. O'Callaghan when Larry had been disposed of, "'tis fitting you should sit to-night in the father's chair. Sit you down in it."
"Not I, mother," responded the gallant Mike. "Sit you in it, and 'twill be all the same as if I sat there myself."
"Well, well, Moike," said the widow with a pleased smile. "Have it your own way. Kape on tryin' to spoil your mother with kindness. 'Tis somethin' you larned from your father, and I'll not be denyin' it makes my heart loight."
And then the talk went on to Andy's promotion to General Brady's kitchen.
"Andy and me won't be a team then," put in little Jim. "I'll run things myself. I guess I can cook."
"Well said, Jim!" cried his mother. "To be sure you can cook—when you've larned how. There's them that takes to cookin' by nature, I've heard, but I've niver seen any of 'em. There's rules to iverything, and iverybody must larn 'em. For 'tis the rule that opens the stingy hand, and shuts a bit the ginerous wan, and so kapes all straight."
But little Jim turned a deaf ear to his mother's wisdom. He was thinking what wonderful dishes he would concoct, and how often they would have pudding. Pudding was Jim's favorite food, and something seldom seen on the widow's table. Little Jim resolved to change the bill of fare, and to go without pudding only when he must. He could not hope to put his plans into operation for many months to come, however; so, with a sigh, he opened his eyes and ears again to what was passing around him, and was just in time to see Barney and Tommie marching to bed an hour later than usual. They had been permitted to sit up till half-past eight in honor of Mike's good fortune. Had their mother known all, they might have stayed in the kitchen engaged in the difficult task of keeping their eyes open at least an hour longer. But they were fast enough asleep in their bed when Pat came gaily in.
"Ah, Pat, my b'y, you kept still at supper toime famous, so you did, but the news is out," began Mrs. O'Callaghan. "It's Moike that's in luck, and sure he desarves it."
"That he does, mother," agreed Pat heartily. "But will you say the same for me if I tell you something?"
The widow regarded him anxiously. There could not be bad news! "Out with it quick, Pat!" she cried.
"Well, then, mother," said Pat with mock resignation in his tone and a sparkle of fun in his eye, "I'm to have forty dollars a month."
"Forty dollars!" repeated the mother. "Forty dollars! That's the Gineral's doin's again. B'ys, I'd be proud to see any wan of you crawl on your knees to sarve the Gineral. Look at all he's done for us, and us doin' nothin' to desarve it, only doin' our best."
And there were tears in the widow's eyes.
"But, mother," resumed Pat, "'tis yourself has the bad luck."
"And what do you mean, Pat?"
"You've lost another wash place to-night."
Mrs. O'Callaghan smiled. "Are you sure of it?" she asked.
"I am," was the determined answer.
"Have it your own way. You and Moike are headstrong b'ys, so you are. If you kape on I'll have nothin' to do but to sit with my hands folded. And that's what your father was always plazed to see me do."
The two brothers exchanged glances of satisfaction, while Andy looked wistfully on and little Jim frowned jealously.
"Now, mother," said Pat, "I've the thought for you. It came to me to-day in the store. 'Tis the best thought ever I had. Andy's going to college."
The delicate boy started. How had Pat divined the wish of his heart?
"'Tis Andy that will make us all proud, if only he can go to college," concluded this unselfish oldest brother.
The widow glanced at the lit-up countenance and eager eyes of her third son, and, loth to rouse hopes that might later have to be dashed down, observed, "Thim colleges are ixpinsive, I belave."
Andy's face clouded with anxiety. There must be a chance for him, or Pat would not have spoken with so much certainty.
"They may be," replied Pat, "but Andy will have Mike on one side of him and me on the other, and we'll make it all right."
"That we will," cried Mike enthusiastically. "By the time he needs to go I'll be making forty dollars a month myself, and little Jim will be earning for himself."
Sturdy Mike as he spoke cast an encouraging look on his favorite brother, who laid by his frown and put on at once an air of importance.
"I'm goin' to be a foightin' man loike the Gineral," he announced pompously.
"Well, well," cried the widow. "I'm gettin' old fast. You'll all be growed up in a few minutes."
And then they all laughed.
But presently the mother said, "Thank God for brothers as is brothers. Andy is goin' to college sure."
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.
The latest cook of the O'Callaghans obeyed, and out rolled a cloud of smoke. The pudding had boiled over and flooded the oven bottom. Poor Jim!
"What's in the oven, Jim? Perhaps you'll be tellin' us," said his mother gravely.
"My puddin'," answered little Jim, very red in the face.
At the word pudding the faces of Barney and Tommie and Larry, who had come in very hungry, lit up. But at the smell they clouded again. A pudding lost was worse than having no pudding to begin with. For to lose what is within reach of his spoon is hard indeed for any boy to bear.
"And what was it I told you to be cookin' for supper?" asked the widow when they had all sat down to steak and bread and butter, leaving the doors and windows wide open to let out the pudding smoke.
But little Jim did not reply and his downcast look was in such contrast to his erect hair, which no failure of puddings could down, that Pat and Mike burst out laughing. The remembrance of the raisins little Jim had so pompously asked for was upon them, too. And even Mrs. O'Callaghan smiled.
"Was it steak and potatoes I told you to be cookin'?" she persisted.
Little Jim nodded miserably.
"I'll not be hard on you, Jim," said his mother, "for I see you're ashamed of yourself, and you ought to be, too. But I'll say this to you; them that cooks puddin's when they're set to cook steak and potatoes is loike to make a smoke in the world, and do themsilves small credit. Let's have no more puddin's, Jim, till I give you the word."
That was all there was of it. But Jim had lost his appetite for pudding, and it was long before it returned to him.
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