One day, early in June—I cannot recall the exact date—Mrs. Timothy
Fennessey, née O'Connor, presented her husband with a fine ten-pound
boy. Now, the Fennesseys are of royal descent, as well as are the
O'Connors. The last of the House of Fennessey (Tim was collaterally
descended) was slain in battle, if I be not mistaken; still, I cannot
vouch for this. He may have been assassinated, struck by lightning,
or drowned in a bag, as many of Ireland's kings were. I am quite sure,
however, he did not die in his bed. Very, very few of those whose names
appear in the chronological table of Ireland's rulers reached so prosaic
an end as natural death.
Thus, by the wedding of Mollie O'Connor with Tim Fennessey, two royal
houses were united, and, as you may imagine, the Heir Apparent was a
personage of no small importance.
One week after the baby's birth, his grandfather, dear old O'Connor
himself, came to the office to call upon Mr. Cutting and to inform him
of the new arrival. Incidentally, I had heard the news some days before,
and had been from that time expecting a visit from O'Connor. So, when
I saw the office-door slowly and noiselessly move inward, I was quite
prepared to see the royal grandparent. But I was not prepared to see so
modest an entrance—to use the parlance of the stage.
The door moved inward, gingerly, for perhaps a foot; next I caught
sight of a homely, well-used hand clasped about its outer edge. Then
followed a much-brushed, tall silk hat of ancient design and of great
respectability. This hat was held by the fitting fellow of the hand I
had first seen and that still grasped the door-rim. Now, from between
the two, came in the white-halo-ed, wrinkled face of Michael J., lineal
descendant of Roderic, last King of Ireland.
"Mr. Cuttin', sor," I heard in a husky, happy, excited whisper; "are
you busy, sor?" Mr. Cutting looked up from his desk and called out in
his brusque, pleasant way:
"Hello! That you, Michael? Not too busy to see _you_. Come right in."
Then followed the real entrance; for what I have thus far described
might better be called "an appearance," to again use the vernacular of
the stage. With hurried, tender steps, O'Connor almost danced across the
room to where Mr. Cutting was seated. His face was completely covered
with one expansive smile of radiant happiness, and, as if to even
emphasize this, when he had reached his short journey's end, he upraised
both his hands, the right one still grasping the royal headgear, and
exclaimed in tones of awe at his own joy:
"Oh my, oh my, oh my! Shure, Mr. Cuttin', you should see him!"
"Who?" replied Mr. Cutting, laconically, and with careful indifference
to grammar.
"The little felly. Mollie, me daughter, that is now Mrs. Fennessey, do
be afther havin' a fine boy. Ah-h! He is a marvil."
"And how is Mollie?" asked Mr. Cutting.
"Shure Mollie's well. She is a fine, strong girl." O'Connor dismissed
the interpolation with a kindly wave of the hand and immediately
returned to the main proposition. "But the little felly!" At this point
he so far forgot himself as to pull his chair close to Mr. Cutting's
and to place one of his honest hands on that gentleman's knee. Mr.
Cutting quietly allowed his own to rest for a moment upon that of his
old friend, and said:
"Tell me all about him, Mike."
In response to this invitation, O'Connor gave his enthusiasm, and his
narrative and descriptive powers full rein. "Well, Mr. Cuttin', sor,"
he began, with manifest determination to do the subject full justice;
"as I said before, he is a marvil. Listen, now; yister' mawnin' I wint,
as is me custom, to see Mollie an' the little felly."
Here Mr. Cutting, with gentle malice aforethought, again checked
the flow, as he gravely winked at me, aside. "By the way, how is Tim
Fennessey?" he asked.
"Just the same," O'Connor replied to the interruption. "He do be doin'
his worruk as ushal—but wid wan per-pet-chill grin on him." The old man
paused long enough to chuckle, then proceeded: "Shure we all av us has
that. But lemme till ye, sor. When I leaned over to look at him——"
"Who?" said Mr. Cutting again, keenly enjoying the narration, and
evidently anxious to have no mistake or lapse in its progression.
"The little felly, av course," said O'Connor, for once, I believe,
doubting Mr. Cutting's mental capacity. "Begorra, phwat do you think,
sor? Up kem the two little fists av him—the two to wanst, moind you—an'
him but wan week ould!—an' grab me be me whishkers, here. Thin he pulled
_an'_ he pulled. Well, Mr. Cuttin', sor, what wid de drag on me hair,
an' the joy in me heart, I akchilly cried. Then the ould woman—she
is mostly at Mollie's now, except whin I needs me meals—you know how
modthers is, sor—she sez to me, 'Michael, dear,' she sez, 'go away now,
you, from the child. You are annoyin' him,' she sez; an' all the while
me unabil to move." O'Connor threw both hands in the air, and then
let them fall softly on his knees as he added, earnestly, "He will be
a grand man, sor. So, whishper! I kem to emply you." As he finished,
he leaned back in his chair with an air of importance hitherto quite
foreign to him.
"How so?" asked Mr. Cutting, his face abeam with lack of calculation.
Just here I must digress. Up to this point O'Connor had entirely ignored
my presence in the office. He hadn't even looked my way, though I knew
him well and deserved better treatment at his hands in return for the
few favors I had been able to do him in the past. Still, I was quite
alive to his mental condition, entirely due to "the little felly," and
knowing, as I did, that all Mr. Cutting's labors in his behalf had been
labors of love, and, too, I confess, because I wished to call O'Connor's
attention to myself, I could not resist a chance remark. So, when Mr.
Cutting asked, "How so?" I interjected, before O'Connor had time to
reply:
"As referee—between him and the little fellow." The effect upon O'Connor
was instantaneous. He whipped round upon me, stared an instant, and
then burst into unconstrained laughter. Mr. Cutting and I joined him,
while the old man rose from his seat and slapped his bended knees with
delight. Then he crossed to my desk, his hand clumsily extended and
apology in every line of his good face.
"Good-morning, sor," he said, as I rose to shake hands with him, "I
forgot me manners lately, sor, but—but me moind is occypied, sor." Then,
with his free hand across his mouth (I still held the other) he laughed
again until he found the breath to say:
"A referee bechune the little felly an' me! Ye young divvil!"—the last
remark being accented by an entirely playful poke upon my shoulder. An
instant afterward he was all contrition and further apology, which I
checked by reminding him of his intention to "emply" Mr. Cutting. At
my reminder, he re-crossed to my senior, and resumed his seat and his
earnestness with noticeable celerity.
"'Tis this, sor," he began, out of breath from his laughing, but
becoming at once grave; "since the little felly kem, I have been sayin'
to meself, constant, 'some day you will die.' All men does, some day,
sor, God rest their souls! And then—well, Mr. Cuttin', sor, 'tis me juty
to make me will."
I saw Mr. Cutting wince a little at the premonition of the
responsibility that must inevitably come to him. I knew that, busy
man as he was, he could refuse O'Connor nothing, whether of time or
thought. Indeed, I doubt if anybody except O'Connor could have made
an inroad upon Mr. Cutting's hours and brain on this particular day.
At the moment of O'Connor's calling, Mr. Cutting was in the intricate
midst of a complicated contract he was drawing for the Traction Co., of
which he was counsel. Still, as every man to be thoroughly able must,
he possessed the three qualities of patience, kindness of heart, and
never-failing sense of humor. So he said:
"Well, Michael, if you want to make your will, I will do my best to draw
it up for you. But a will is a pretty important matter."
"That's why I come to you, sor," said O'Connor, simply. I saw Mr.
Cutting's eyes glisten with pleasure as he answered:
"Tell me what you want done with your property."
"That's what I don't know, sor," was O'Connor's reply. Here seemed to be
a hopeless situation, until it cleared when the old man, after pulling
at his beard for a while, added: "I do be thinkin' about the little
felly."
"Yes?" said Mr. Cutting, with all the encouragement rising inflection
can give.
"Thin," O'Connor responded, "there's the ould woman, who has been a good
wife to me." Here he ruminated, his hardened hand across his seasoned
lips. At length he added: "No man could ask a betther, God knows.
An', thin, there's Mollie, me daughter—a shweet, good gurrul, an' his
modther. But I was thinkin' about the little felly—" O'Connor's supply
of speech became temporarily exhausted and the sound of his voice ceased
with a long sigh of inability to further express himself.
"There may, some day, be other little fellies—or fillies," suggested
Mr. Cutting, unable to resist the temptation.
"That's so-o," said O'Connor, thoughtfully. "Shure I forgot that." He
leaned back in his chair and considered.
"You love them all, Michael," Mr. Cutting interposed. "Your wife and
your daughter as well as your grandson?"
The reply came quickly. "I do that, sor. God bless them, ivery wan.
That's what's perplexin' me, sor." Sweeter and better perplexity could
no man have. Kindly anxiety overspread the old face.
"You have, of course, entire confidence in your son-in-law?" The
question was a steady one, fully anticipating the answer that came at
once:
"I'd thrust Tim wid me life. He is a good man, an' a kind man—an' he
niver drinks."
"Then, Michael," said Mr. Cutting, gravely and after no slight pause,
"the best will you can make is no will."
"How is that?"
"In the first place," Mr. Cutting explained, "if you make no will, it
can't be broken." This was a bull that decidedly impressed the would-be
client.
"That's thrue, sor," he replied, reflectively.
"In the second place," Mr. Cutting continued, "by leaving no will, those
you love will, I believe, benefit by your estate precisely as you would
wish them to. The law provides for just that."
O'Connor pondered long. At last he said:
"Well, Mr. Cuttin', sor, if all I need is the law, I'm sorry I bodthered
_you_." I ducked into the recesses of my roll-top desk, whence, after
an interval, during which I could almost hear Mr. Cutting restraining
his laughter (as I was mine), he replied:
"No bother at all, Michael." Then he added, after a sigh, "I believe I
have advised you for the best."
"Ye have that, sor. And I knowed you would." Thus the matter of the will
was closed, and nothing further was said regarding it. But I thought
I could see there was something more on O'Connor's mind. I knew the
unfinished contract was on Mr. Cutting's, though he sat and patiently
awaited further developments, meanwhile passing his thumb and forefinger
along a lead-pencil, which, in the passing, he turned and turned,
alternately resting point and end upon the blotter on his desk. During
this, O'Connor, seated on the edge of his chair, hesitated whether to
rise and go, or to further unburden his mind. Mr. Cutting relieved the
situation.
"What is the little boy's name, Mike?" he asked.
"Shure 'tis that I wished to exshplain, sor," O'Connor hastened to
reply, his hesitation gone on the instant. "Whin he was born I sez to
my wife, 'Bridget Ann,' I sez, 'we will name him Hinry Haitch Cuttin','
I sez. 'We will do no such thing,' she sez. 'Tim an' Mollie will name
the child. 'Tis no affair ov ours,' she sez. So, sor—well—" O'Connor's
finish was tinged with regret, and accented by a hopeless wave of the
hands.
"And your wife was entirely right, Michael," Mr. Cutting answered,
quickly; "although I appreciate and thank you for the compliment you
wished to pay me." He was now making marks on his blotter, the pencil in
position to jot down a memorandum. "What name did his mother give him?"
As the reply came, I saw him let the pencil fall. There was no need of
a memorandum.
"Michael Joseph, after mesilf, sor." O'Connor looked very sheepish, but
there was an undernote of pleasure in his answer.
"Eminently proper, and the best name he could have," said Mr. Cutting,
rising, and thus supplying the necessary fillip to his client's
readiness to depart. He walked to the door with the old man, his hand
on the royal shoulder, and bade him a warm "good-by," sending his
kindest regards and best wishes to all the members of the Royal Family,
especially the Heir Apparent.
Then, assuming his most professional manner, and to my surprise making
ready to go out, Mr. Cutting remarked to me:
"I shall leave the drawing-up of the contract until my return. I
am now going out to luncheon. I may be a little longer than usual
because, incidentally, I shall select a silver utensil for one Michael
Joseph O'Connor, Junior, and give directions in regard to a suitable
inscription to be thereupon engraved."
As he opened the door to leave the office, out broke his pleasant
laugh, and I heard it continuing for some moments after the sound of
his foot-fall upon the stone hallway had died out in the distance.
It must have been two months after this—indeed, I am sure it was in
August, because Mr. Cutting was away on his vacation, and I was alone
in the office—that O'Connor called again. I should state, though, in
passing, that he had called once in the meantime to thank Mr. Cutting
for a certain silver mug, duly inscribed: