I have an idea, although I have no word or proof of any kind to uphold
it, that O'Connor regarded the omission of "_Esq._" after "_Cutting_"
as an oversight. Still, he was royally pleased by the gift, and assured
Mr. Cutting it should be kept with the greatest care among the most
cherished of the family possessions, and at this point, I remember,
Mr. Cutting had occasion again to advise his client, and to the effect
that if the "little felly" were not to make actual, daily use of the
gift—not only as a utensil, but also to bite, pound, dent and treat
at will—he, the "little felly," would never acquire real affection for
it. Mr. Cutting further explained that it was from such treatment and
familiarity real affection sprang; and that he wanted the recipient to
come to love the gift—and the giver, too, perhaps, some day. This advice
the client accepted with entire faith in its wisdom; as a good client
should always accept advice from a good counsellor. But all this was
during O'Connor's intermediate visit—not at the time to which I refer.
That time was on a very hot day in August; in fact, it was, as
O'Connor tersely put it, when he had seated himself beside me, "too hot
altogither."
"Mr. Cutting is away, sor?" was his next remark, made with an inflection
that showed it to be not only a statement but an interrogatory as well,
intended to serve as an introduction to matters of import. I replied,
accordingly:
"Yes, Mr. Cutting is on his vacation. Is there anything _I_ can do for
you?"
O'Connor's method of approach melted at once into complete confidence.
You may well imagine my pleasure at being consulted, as follows, in my
senior's absence:
"It was you I wished to see, sor," the old man went on, placing his tall
hat on my desk and his moist red handkerchief within the hat. "Ye have
been a friend to me more than once, and I wish your advice." He slowly
drew an honest, well-worn wallet from his hip pocket. I protested.
"Ye are a young felly, sor, and this is different," he said. "'Tis me
intention to pay you for the service I ask."
From "young felly" to "little felly" was a quick mental transition, and
instantly I grasped the opportunity that would enable me, as well as
the senior counsel, to bear gifts to the Heir Apparent, so I said:
"Well, Mr. O'Connor, if you wish to employ me, of course—" I paused,
while he extracted and laid upon my desk a battered ten dollar bill. I
immediately secluded it.
In justice to my poor self I must digress once more. The "little felly"
now possesses, in addition to a silver mug, (and the "mug" Heaven gave
him as a lineal descendant) a silver spoon and a silver fork of no mean
dimensions, suitably inscribed. However, that is nobody's business but
my own. Probably that is why I tell it. I never could keep my business
to myself, any more than I now can O'Connor's.
"'Tis like this, sor," the old fellow proceeded. "I have it in me moind
to go to th' ould counthree. I kem over whin I was a lad, so-o—well,
sor, there is much I dishremember now. But I would like some day to
tell the little felly all about it, and—" Here he paused a moment. "Me
sister is there, too," he added, "and sor, well—I would be afther askin'
you to arrange the thrip for me. I wish to have it done decent, d'ye
moind, and, whishper! I don't know the ropes mesilf, and I don't want
the odthers to know I don't know them, d'ye moind?"
Here was confidence from a client, indeed.
Never mind about the succeeding details, consisting of a letter of
credit, exchange, passage, and an excellent stateroom in the second
cabin. To all these details I attended personally, and can and do vouch
for their careful accomplishment.
On a certain day I shall never forget—it was in the latter part of the
same August—I stood looking out of the window of our office. From it
I had a clear view of the harbor and of the vessels that came to and
left it. Soon, a Cunarder glided into my vista, and, passing out, left
a quickly lost picture of white wake, purple sea, and low hanging gray
smoke. But the thought in my heart as I stood and watched remains:
"God bless his kindly old heart! and God grant he may return safe and
sound to the 'little felly.'"
I speak of it as a thought. It must have been a prayer, so quickly was
it answered. As I stood watching the slow blending of the smoke with the
mellow light of the afternoon, I heard behind me a gentle, initiatory
cough.
I turned. There stood O'Connor himself, hat in hand, in the centre of
the office. I can tell you nothing of his entrance.
"What in the world!" I exclaimed and asked.
He hung his dear old head, and fingered the rim of the same tall hat
I knew so well, while he slowly passed it round and round between his
hands. At last he spoke. His voice was all appeal; without a tone of
assertion:
"I decided not to go."
"Why?"
"The little felly."
"You went aboard?"
"Yis."
I ventured, from intuition, "But at the last moment you felt homesick?
Is that it?"
He answered me over a half-turned, bashful, aged, and patient shoulder.
"Yis."
"So you left the boat before she sailed?"
"Jist that."
"And your baggage?"
"It's gone—wid the boat. But—but that's no differ."
Once more—never mind about the details. We had a long talk, our client
and I. I learned that his wife and daughter, Tim Fennessey, too, had
parted from him at his own request, a quarter of an hour before the
sailing of the liner—"To have no scene," he said—and finally I learned
what I could do in his behalf. It was to ease his return to his own
people.
"Now, sor," he said, at the close of our interview, "will you be so kind
as to go before me and warn me wife?"
"Tell her you changed your mind at the last moment? Is that it?"
I asked.
"Yis, sor, 'tis jist that." Then, he added, with the first semblance of
assertiveness, "And it was me right."
"Unquestionably," I answered. Then I suggested that we start on our
journey, at the end of which I was to be Ambassador Extraordinary and
Minister Plenipotentiary to the Royal Consort.
During our walk through the almost deserted streets, where the heat of
the passing day still hung in sluggish malignity, we had plenty of time
for further consultation. Old O'Connor at my side, but never once in
step, gave me minute instructions.
"You see, sor," he said, by way of additional explanation, "the windie
from me place looks to the harbor, and we can see the steamboats as they
comes and goes. 'Twas all arranged the little felly should be in wan
o' the windies to see me as I wint away; well, when the orf'cer o' the
boat sez that all thim that wasn't intendin' to go should go back to
the dock, I sez to mesilf, "_Are_ you intendin' to go?" Thin I thinks to
mesilf, 'Shure some odther day will do as well and 'tis as well to wait
until the little felly is big enough to go with me and see for himself,'
dye moind? Wid that I walks off av the boat and comes to your offus."
"Leaving your baggage on board," I added.
"Yis, sor—but that's no differ—shure the duds was all new, and I care
little for thim." His eagerness increased as we neared his home, down
on the wharf, and above his junk-store and saloon. So our conferences
came in short sentences.
"I will get your baggage back," I began.
"Can you do that, sor?"
"Certainly. I will see the steamship company." He sighed comfortably.
"Thank you, sor. 'Twill be a favor to me. But, whishper! When we reaches
my place, I will shtand outside forninst the corner. Thin, do you go
inside and exshplain to me wife and prepare her for me return, do ye
see?"
I quite understood, and said so. As we turned our last corner, we caught
the soft caress of a gentle, belated sea-breeze, and I felt my heart
uplift and my brain clear.
"Go on, now, you," was his parting instruction. "I will wait here till
ye come back and tell me."
You may be sure I made my way to the royal mansion as quickly as the
temperature would permit. In response to my knock at the inner door, it
was opened by Mrs. O'Connor herself. She greeted me with quiet, simple
courtesy and, as soon as I was seated and she had remarked upon the
heat of the day (her remarks fitting exactly into my own opinion of
the weather) she asked, before I had time to even set the wheels of my
diplomacy in motion:
"Is Michael on the corner, sor?"
"Yes," I gasped, any further need for diplomacy gone.
"Tell him, sor, if you will kindly, that Tim and Mollie is here, and
the baby, and we have supper most ready and is waiting for him."
"You knew, then?" I asked, weakly.
"Shure we all av us see him leave the boat, sor. We niver thought he'd
go. And thank you, kindly, sor, for your trouble." Mrs. O'Connor crossed
with me to the door, and a minute smile just beginning at the corners
of her shrewd, old mouth let me out.
I soon came back to my principal in the affair. "Everything is all
right," I said to him, and with the usual presumption of an ambassador,
added, "I have fixed it. You needn't worry."
"God bless you, sor," he said as he grasped my hand. "I'll be in again
soon to see you, sor. And now I—I think I will be gettin' home."
So we parted, he to his loved domain, I to my club.