The shanty by the tracks had never seen such rejoicing as occurred
within its cheap walls that January evening. Pat had said nothing at
supper time of his wonderful news concerning Mike. He knew how anxious
his brother would be to tell it himself, and he had left the tale of his
own advancement to follow Mike's disclosure. For he felt sure that he
should find Mike upon his return from the store at nine o'clock, and
that he would spend the night at home, as he sometimes did. Many times
that day he glanced at the print and gingham counter and imagined Mike's
sturdy figure behind it. Pat's hands were long and slender, while Mike's
were of the sort known as "useful." "Before ever he comes in he shall
know how to measure and display goods, and how to make neat packages,"
he thought. "I'll teach him myself odd times."
And then followed visions of the increased comfort to come to the
shanty. He saw his mother, with never a wash place, staying at home
every day to guide and control the little boys. He saw Andy, quiet,
studious Andy, moving gently about in General Brady's house, and the
thought came to him that the General would probably like him better than
he did either Mike or himself, though Andy would never be much of a hand
at marketing. And then came the most daring thought of all--"Andy shall
go to college. Mike and I will help him to it."
But never an opportunity of making a sale did Pat miss. With that last
decision to send Andy to college he had hung upon himself a new weight.
Not a weight that oppressed and bent him down, but a weight that caused
him to hold his head up and resolve, as never before, to do his best.
"Andy's not strong," his busy brain, in the intervals of trade, ran on.
"But with Mike on one side of him and me on the other, he'll get to the
place where he can do his best. General Brady is helping Mike and me.
It's a pity if the two of us can't help Andy."
It was hard to keep still at supper time, but Pat succeeded, only
allowing himself to bestow a look of particular affection on his
favorite brother.
But his mother was not to be deceived. She followed him to the door and,
putting her head outside, said softly, "You may kape still if you want
to, Pat dear, but 'tis mysilf as knows you've somethin' on your moind."
"Well, then, mother," prophesied Pat with a laughing backward glance, "I
think Mike will be over to spend the evening with you." And he was off.
"And what does he mean by that?" wondered Mrs. O'Callaghan, looking
after him. "There's somethin' astir. I felt it by the look of him."
She turned back and shut the door, and there was little Jim loitering as
if he hardly knew whether to wash the dishes or not.
"'Tis the bank that's ahead of you, do you moind, Jim? Hurry up with
your dish pan. Pat was sayin' maybe Mike'll be home this evenin'."
In response to this urging little Jim made a clatter with the dishes
that might be taken by some to represent an increase of speed, but his
mother was not of that number.
"Come, Jim," she said, "less n'ise. If you was hustlin' them thin china
dishes of Mrs. Gineral Brady's loike that there'd be naught left of 'em
but pieces--and dirty pieces, too, for they'd all be broke before you'd
washed wan of 'em."
"I ain't never goin' to wash any of Mrs. Gineral Brady's dishes,"
remarked Jim calmly.
"You're young yet, Jim, to be sayin' what you're goin' to do and what
not," was the severe response. "At your age your father would niver have
said he would or he would not about what was a long way ahead of him,
for your father was wise, and he knowed that ne'er a wan of us knows
what's comin' to us."
[Illustration: "Little Jim made a clatter with the dishes."]
But Jim's countenance expressed indifference. "Gineral Brady's got a
bank without washin' dishes for it," he observed.
The widow stared. This was a little nearer to impertinence than anything
she had before encountered.
"You moind the Gineral made gravy, do you?" she said at last. "And good
gravy, too?"
Jim was obliged to own that he remembered it. "And that he done it with
an apron on to kape from gettin' burnt and spattered?"
Jim nodded.
"Him that ain't above makin' gravy, ain't above washin' dishes,
nayther," was the statement made in Mrs. O'Callaghan's most impressive
manner. "Show Gineral Brady a pile of dishes that it was his place to
wash, and he'd wash 'em, you may depind. 'Tis iver the biggest folks as
will do little things loike that when they has to, and do 'em good, too.
What's got into you, Jim?"
"You think Pat and Mike and Andy's better than me," burst out the
jealous little fellow.
"I think," said his mother, "that Pat and Moike and 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."