PROMOTION.
"You can run round to the meeting in the Town Hall to-night and see what
sort of a fist you make of it," said Cairns, the man who now sat in the
editorial chair of "The Grey Town Observer," to Desmond O'Connor, just
one month after the young man had been admitted to the office.
"Thank you, sir," said Desmond, springing to his feet in his excitement.
"It's a chance," said the editor. "Don't be too diffuse, but see that
you miss nothing. What is that paper in front of you?" He took the paper
from Desmond O'Connor's hands and held it at arm's length, while a
sardonic smile held possession of his face.
"Shall I let the old man see it?" he asked. "Mr. Brown would like to see
himself as you see him, under the title of 'Old Eb.' By the way, if you
could catch Martin smiling to-night, and Langridge in tears, it would
help your report. You appear to bring out the salient features of a
handsome face, even if you accentuate them. Martin's teeth and
Langridge's nose are striking objects. Let us have them for to-morrow."
Desmond returned to his type-writing with a sigh of satisfaction. In
this meeting he saw a road to promotion.
Meeting Molly Healy on his way to luncheon, he paused to make her sharer
in his good fortune, for Molly and he had always been good comrades.
Molly was in a tearing hurry at that moment. One of her dogs had
strayed, and she was beating the town to find him; but she paused to
listen to his tale.
"Going to the meeting! Is it to speak?" she asked.
"No," he replied contemptuously, "to report what the beggars say."
"Just to write down the words of a lot of windbags. That's nothing! If I
were Ebenezer Brown, you would be in Mr. Cairns' place. But, good luck
to you, Desmond. I will set all the old women praying for you. Some day
you will be owning a paper yourself, if I can help you."
"Thank you, Molly," he cried.
The girl cast a wistful glance after him as he left her, for no one
admired Desmond O'Connor more than she. But the vision of a black dog
vanishing around a distant corner caused her to start in a hurried
pursuit. Round the corner she ran, straight into the arms of Constable
McSherry, who was coming sedately along the footpath in an opposite
direction to her own.
"What would my wife say if she saw this?" he asked, as she cannoned into
him; "a young lady running into my arms?"
"Don't be talking nonsense," she replied, laughingly. "Did you see a
dog?"
"It's nothing but dogs," he answered. "Which was the one you were
after?"
"A black-and-tan collie with a blue-ribbon round his neck, and a saucy
look on his face."
"A blue ribbon around his neck? It wouldn't be the one I saw going into
the public-house, then?"
The constable paused to consider, while Molly suddenly whirled down the
street and pounced on the errant collie. Seeing this, Constable McSherry
turned to continue his leisurely course of inspection.
As Desmond returned from his hurried meal, he again met Molly, towing
her unwilling captive home. She signalled to Desmond to stop.
"I have been thinking that you might take me to the meeting," she said.
Desmond shook his head.
"Not to-night, Molly. You would have me laughing all the time. There's a
circus coming next week; will you come to that?"
"Do you think I am never serious?" the girl asked. "I would not so much
as smile."
"It can't be done, Molly. I shall be sitting at a table writing for all
I am worth."
"Then I will sit just behind you and torment you all the while," she
remarked vindictively.
And such was her purpose when she induced Dr. Marsh to accompany her to
the Town Hall that evening.
"You don't know what you are doing!" he protested. "I shall go to sleep,
I know. Did you ever hear me snore? They tell me it's like the grunt of
a boar when he is hungry after a seven days' fast."
"Let me hear you do it now!" she laughed. "I am going there to-night
just to tease Desmond O'Connor. He refused to take me."
"What is Desmond doing there?" asked the doctor.
"Taking notes of the speeches. It won't be many notes he will take
to-night," she answered.
"For shame, Molly. This is the boy's chance of promotion. If I take you,
we shall sit at the back of the hall."
"Among the boys?" asked Molly. "Then you shall take me to enjoy the fun.
I'll ignore Desmond to-night; but I will be even with him for this."
A political meeting, with two picked speakers to leaven a number of dull
and uninteresting harangues. It was not a very exciting entertainment.
But there were "the boys," vociferous, intolerant, sometimes amusing, to
enliven proceedings for Molly; while Desmond snatched up the salient
features in shorthand and with pencil. Samuel Quirk was a keen
politician, and he had transferred the scope of his energy from
Collingwood to Grey Town. Unlike many men, he had not changed his
politics with the change in his fortunes. He it was who had organised
the opposition. At his word a storm of protest, a roar of ironical
laughter, or a volley of interjections harassed the speakers on the
platform. And it was Samuel Quirk who asked the first questions at the
close of the meeting. Straightway Desmond transferred the old man to his
note-book, to appear on the following morning as "The Interjector in
Chief," in company with Martin and Langridge.
"You have scored a bullseye," cried Cairns, when he had read Desmond's
report, and had glanced at the sketches. "You are promoted to the
reporting staff. Keep your observant faculties keen and your pencil
sharp, my boy, and we will make the old "Observer" boom."
Samuel Quirk smiled when he saw himself in the morning's paper.
"See here, old woman, what they have been doing to me!" he cried, as he
banged "The Observer" down in front of his wife at breakfast.
With trembling hands, she adjusted her glasses, fully anticipating that
her husband had been sentenced to some heavy penalty for his political
creed. But when she saw him on the front sheet of the paper, with the
bellicose features of his face exaggerated, Mrs. Quirk was moved to
anger.
"And who has been doing this?" she asked. "It is time something should
be done to put an end to this. It is an outrage----. Does he call
himself an artist?" she questioned, after studying the picture.
"I think it's a very fine picture; perhaps the nose is a little large,
and the mouth, too. But it's quite a pleasant picture," said Samuel
Quirk complacently.
"If I knew the man that had done it, sure I would make it quite
unpleasant for him," said Mrs. Quirk.
"'Tis a sign of fame to be made a sketch of," said Samuel Quirk. "They
know that I have organised the boys, and this is the way they try to
have revenge."
Therewith he went out to talk politics to his employes while he watched
them at work.
"'Tis but eight hours you will do, lads, but it will be an honest eight
hours' work you will give me for the decent wages I pay you," he was
accustomed to say.
Kathleen O'Connor recognised Desmond's hand in the sketch when Mrs.
Quirk showed it to her. She, however, considered it prudent not to
mention the artist's name, for she could see that Mrs. Quirk was deeply
hurt at what she regarded as an insult to the old man. Fortunately,
however, an event occurred during the day that entirely diverted Mrs.
Quirk's attention from the picture of her husband.
It was one of Kathleen's duties to read to Mrs. Quirk the few letters
that came for her.
"My sight is leaving me," the old lady remarked in excuse for her lack
of education, "and these spectacles don't appear to improve it."
Therefore, Kathleen opened a letter, addressed in a man's bold
handwriting to "Mrs. Quirk, 26 Rainey-street, Collingwood," and
forwarded from that address. It had come from the United States, and had
evidently been delayed in transit, for the letter was dated three months
before it was received.
"My dearest old mother," Kathleen began to read.
"It's from Denis!" cried Mrs. Quirk. "Denis, that I believed was dead!
Call Mr. Quirk, my dear! Oh, this is too much joy! God is good, far too
good, to an undeserving old woman like me."
Kathleen went out into the gardens and found Mr. Quirk, spade in hand,
busily instructing a raw recruit how to work.
"There's no art in it," he remarked contemptuously. "'Tis merely a
matter of muscle. You won't do for me!"
"Mrs. Quirk wants you in the dining-room," said Kathleen.
"Wants me? And what for?" he asked.
"She has a letter from your son."
Mr. Quirk laughed contemptuously. But he paused in his work to reply.
"My only son is dead these ten years. Is she mad?"
"No, she is not," replied the girl indignantly. "I opened the letter
myself, and it is from your son."
"I will come and see it. It is probably some idle vagabond that is
playing a trick on her," growled Samuel Quirk. "Here," he cried to the
labourer, "take the spade, and let me see what you can do."
Kathleen was always annoyed by the old man's assumed contempt for his
wife. Samuel Quirk recognised the fact, and was secretly amused at it.
He feigned a greater intolerance and disrespect before the girl, just to
increase her indignation. Now, as she moved away, the picture of
resentment, he called out:
"Tell her I am coming to expose the scamp. She is too soft. Every idle
fellow makes use of her."
Kathleen found the old lady holding the opened letter upside down,
vainly attempting to decipher the writing, while the tears of joy
dropped from her eyes upon the pages.
"Mr. Quirk does not believe it is from your son," said Kathleen.
"Who but Denis would call me mother?" she asked. "But himself was just
saying that to annoy you; don't be taking too much notice of him. Read
it, dearie. Let me hear my boy speaking to me again."
"I have prospered and made a fortune in America. I am coming home to
look after you and the father. Prepare to pack up and come with me to a
better home than the old one in Collingwood. I have been wanting all
these years to have the old mother, who sacrificed herself for me,
beside me."
"And why not sacrifice myself for him? Wasn't he my only child? And a
dear boy--and good. Didn't my heart all but break with joy when I first
saw him serving the good priest's Mass! It was Father Healy's himself,
no less. Does he say anything about the Faith?" asked Mrs. Quirk.
"I shall buy a fine home, with the church not half a mile away. You can
make the church your second home, as you did in Collingwood," read
Kathleen.
Samuel Quirk marched relentlessly into the room, his face showing the
most determined incredulity it could assume.
"Let me see the letter," he said, calmly taking it from Kathleen.
"Could Denis write like this?" he asked.
"And who better?" cried Mrs. Quirk. "Wasn't he the smartest boy at
school? Do you remember the day he won all those prizes?"
A smile of pride overspread the old man's face for one moment, then he
remorselessly subdued it.
"I am thinking it is some scamp that has heard how soft you are," he
remarked, as he read the letter. "Hem! I wonder how much money that
will be? And when will he be here?"
As if in answer to his question, the sound of wheels was heard on the
avenue. Mrs. Quirk flew to the window, while the old man followed more
sedately.
"It is himself!" cried Mrs. Quirk. "Let me be the first to bid him
welcome."
She almost ran to the front door in her excitement, to find the strong
arms of a man around her.
"Glory be to God! And is it Denis?" she sobbed.
"Who else would it be?" answered the newcomer.