"I can give you a chance," repeated Pete, as he turned to Dan with his
broad, ruddy face illuminated by a friendly smile. "It's a chance I
wouldn't hold out to everybody, but I know you for a wide-awake youngster,
as honest as you are slick. Them two don't go together in general; but
it's the combination I'm looking fur just now, and you seem to have it. I
was thinking over it this very morning. 'Lord, Lord,' sez I to myself, 'if
Dan Dolan hadn't gone and got that eddycation bug in his head, wouldn't
this be the chance for him?"
"What is it?" asked Dan; but there was not much eagerness in his question.
Wide and springy as was the butcher's cart, it did not appeal to him as a
chariot of fortune just now. A loin of beef dangled over his head, a dead
calf was stretched out on the straw behind him. Pete's white apron was
stained with blood. Dan was conscious of a dull, sick repulsion of body
and soul.
"Well, it's this," continued Pete, cheerfully. "You see, I've made a
little money over there at my corner, and I'm planning to spread out,--do
things bigger and broader. There ain't no sort of use in holding back to
hams and shoulders when ye can buy yer hogs on the hoof. That's what I'm
in fur now,--hogs on the hoof; cut 'em, corn 'em, smoke 'em, salt 'em,
souse 'em, grind 'em into sausage meat and headcheese and scrapple, boil
'em into lard. Why, a hog is a regular gold mine when he is handled right.
But I can't handle it in that little corner shop I've got now: there's no
room fur it. But it's too good a business there fur me to give up. So I'm
going to open another place further out, and keep both a-going. And I
can't afford no high-class bookkeeper or clerk, that will maybe jump my
trade and gobble all my profits. What I want is a boy,--a bright,
wide-awake boy that knows enough about figguring to keep my accounts, and
see that no one 'does' me,--a boy that I can send round in the wagon to
buy and sell 'cording to my orders,--a boy that will be smart enough to
pick up the whole business from _a_ to _izzard_, and work up as I worked
up till I kin make him partner. That's the chance I've got, and I believe
you're the boy to take it."
"I--I would have to give up college of course," said Dan, slowly.
"Give up college!" echoed Pete. "Well, I should rather say you would!
There ain't no time fur books in a biz like mine. Now, Dan, what's the
good of college anyhow fur a chap like you? It ain't ez if you were one of
these high mug-a-mugs with a rich father to pay yer way through, and set
you up in a white choker and swallow-tail coat afterwards. What's the good
of a strong, husky fellow fooling along with Latin and Greek, that will
never be no use to him? You'd a heap better spiel plain strong English
that will bring you in the spondulics. Why, look at me! I never had two
years' schooling in my life. It's all I can do to scrawl 'P. J.
Patterson,' so folks can read it, and thump out the rest on a secondhand
typewriter. But that 'ere same scrawl will bring five thousand dollars out
of the bank any time I want it. If I had as much eddycation as you have,
Dan, nobody couldn't keep me in any school in the land another minute.
It's all nonsense,--a dead waste of time and money."
"What would you pay me?" asked Dan, as the big loin of beef above joggled
against his shoulder.
"Well, let me see!" considered Pete. "I ain't paying any fancy price at
start, fur I don't know how things will work out; but I won't be mean with
you, Dan. What do you say to four dollars a week and board?"
"No," answered Dan, promptly. "I don't want your board at all."
"Ye don't?" said Pete in surprise. "It will be good board, Dan: no fancy
fixings but filling, I promise you that,--good and filling."
"I don't care how filling it is," answered Dan, gruffly. "I'd want my own
board, with Aunt Winnie. That's all I'd come to you for,--to take care of
Aunt Winnie."
"Ain't they good to her where she is?" asked Pete, who knew something of
the family history.
"Yes," answered Dan; "but she is not happy: she is homesick, and I want to
bring her--home."
And something in the tone of the boyish voice told Pete that, with Aunt
Winnie and a home, Dan would be secured as his faithful henchman forever.
"I don't blame you," he said. "I've got an old mother myself, and if I
took her out of her little cubby-hole of a house and put her in the marble
halls that folks sing about, she'd be pining. It's women nature, specially
old women. Can't tear 'em up by the roots when they're past sixty. And
that old aunt of yours has been good to you sure,--good as a mother."
"Yes," answered Dan, a little huskily, "good as a mother."
"Then you oughtn't to go back on her sure," said Pete, reflectively.
"Considering the old lady, I'll make it five dollars a week, if you'll
agree for a year ahead, Dan."
"A year ahead!" echoed Dan, thinking of all that year had promised him.
"Yes," said Pete, decidedly. "It must be a year ahead. I can't break you
in at such a big figger, and then hev you bolt the track just as I've got
used to you. I wouldn't give five dollars a week to any other boy in the
world, though I know lots of 'em would jump at it. It's only thinking of
that old mother of mine and how I'd feel in your place, makes me offer it
to you. Five dollars a week will bring your Aunt Winnie back home. And,
between you and me, Dan, if she ain't brought back, she'll be in another
sort of home before long, and past your helping. Mrs. Mulligan was telling
me the other day that she had been out to see her, and she was looking
mighty peaked and feeble,--not complaining of course, but just pining away
natural."
"When will you want me?" blurted out Dan, desperately. "Right off now?"
"Oh, no, no!" was the hasty answer. "I haven't got the other place open
yet, and this 'ere hot weather ain't no time fur it. I'm just laying plans
for the fall. What were you thinking of doing this summer?"
"Going off with a lot of fellows to the seashore. But I'm ready to give it
up," answered Dan, gulping down the lump that rose in his throat.
"No, don't,--don't!" said Pete. "I haven't got things fixed for a start
yet. Won't have them fixed for a couple of months or so. I ain't
a-hurrying you. Just you think this 'ere chance over, and make up your
mind whether it ain't wuth more than all that Greek and Latin they're
stuffing into your head at Saint Andrew's. Then come around somewhere
about the first of September and see me 'bout it. I won't go back on my
offer. It will be five dollars cash down every Saturday night, and no
renigging. I turn off here," concluded Pete, drawing up as they reached a
busy corner. "You'll have to jump down; so bye, bye, Dan my boy, until I
see you again! Remember it's five dollars a week, and a home for Aunt
Winnie."
"I'll remember," said Dan, as, half dazed, he jumped from the wagon and
took his way back to Saint Andrew's.
He entered the cross-crowned gateway that guarded the spacious grounds,
feeling like one in a troubled dream. He could shape nothing clearly: his
past, present, and future seemed shaken out of place like the vari-colored
figures of a kaleidoscope. To give up all his hopes, to shut out the
beautiful vista opening before him and settle down forever to--to--"hogs
on the hoof!" And yet it was his only chance to cheer, to gladden, perhaps
to save gentle Aunt Win's life,--to bring her home again.
But would she be happy at such a sacrifice? Would she not grieve even at
the fireside she had regained over her broken dreams? And Dan would come
down from his dreams and visions (which, after all, are very vague and
uncertain things for boys of thirteen) to Tabby and the teapot, to the
fluttering old hand in his clasp, the trembling old voice in his ear.
The sun was close to its setting; supper was over, he knew; and Jim Norris
was waiting impatiently for his promised game. But he could not think of
tennis just now; still less was he disposed for a meeting with Dud
Fielding, whose voice he could hear beyond the box hedge at his right. So,
turning away from tennis court and playground, Dan plunged into the quiet
shelter of the walk that skirted the high, ivy-grown wall, and was already
growing dim with evening shadows, though lances of sunlight glinting here
and there through the arching pines broke the gloom.
Pacing the quiet way with feeble step was an old priest, saying his
Office. Father Mack's earthly work was done. He could no longer preach or
teach; he was only lingering in the friendly shadows of Saint Andrew's,
waiting his Master's call home; his long, busy life ending in a sweet
twilight peace. Sometimes at retreats or on great feasts, when there was a
crowd of juvenile penitents in the college chapel, Father Mack, gentle and
indulgent, had his place in a quiet corner, where he was rather avoided by
young sinners as a "dying saint."
But Dan, whatever might be his month's record of wrong-doing, had taken to
Father Mack from the first. Perhaps it was something in the Irish voice
that recalled Aunt Winnie; perhaps some deeper sympathy between souls
akin. Though they seldom met, for the old priest had his room in a
building remote from the students' quarters, Father Mack and Dan were fast
friends. His presence here was most unlooked for; and Dan was about to
retire without further intrusion, when the old priest closed his book and
turned to him with a kindly nod.
"You needn't run off. I'm done, my boy. These long, hot days are a bit
hard on me; but I like to stay out here in the evening to say my Office
and watch the sunset. Did you ever watch the sunset, Danny?"
"Yes, Father," answered Dan. "It's great."
"What do you see in it, Danny?" was the low question.
"Oh, all sorts of things, Father,--domes and spires and banners of gold
and red and purple, and pillars of cloud and fire--"
"And gates," broke in Father Mack. "Don't you see the gates, Danny,--gates
that seem to open in the shining way that leads to God's Throne? Ah, it's
a wonderful sight, the sunset, when your day is near done and you are
tired and old,--too old to be picturing and dreaming. I'll soon
see--beyond the cloud and the dream, Danny,--I'll soon see."
The old man paused for a moment, his dim eye kindling, his withered face
rapt. Then suddenly, as if recalled from some cloudy height to earth, his
look and voice changed into fatherly interest.
"Were you looking for me,--were you wanting to talk to me, my son?"
"No--yes--no," faltered Dan, who had not thought of such a thing. "Well,
yes, I believe I do. I'm all muddled up, and maybe you can set me right,
Father Mack. For--for," Dan blurted out without further hesitation, "I
can't see things clear myself. Aunt Winnie is grieving and pining and
homesick at the Little Sisters. She is trying to hide it, but she is
grieving, I know. She broke down and cried to-day when I went to see
her,--cried real sobs and tears. And--and" Dan went on with breathless
haste, "Peter Patterson, that keeps the meatshop at our old corner, has
offered me five dollars a week to come and work for him. To give up Saint
Andrew's--and--and--all it means, Father Mack, and work for him."