The Widow O'Callaghan's Boys Part 21

"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 pa.s.sing 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."

St.u.r.dy 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 G.o.d for brothers as is brothers.

Andy is goin' to college sure."

CHAPTER XVIII

Summer time came again. The stove went out into the airy kitchen, and a larger flock of geese squawked in the weeds and ditches. Again Andy and Jim drove the cows, Andy of a morning with a dreamy stroll, and Jim of an evening with a strut that was intended for a military gait. Who had told little Jim of West Point, the family did not know. But he had been told by somebody.

And his cows were to him as a battalion to be commanded. The General used to watch him from his front veranda with a smile. Somewhere Jim had picked up the military salute, and he never failed to honor the General with it as he strutted past with his cows. And always the old soldier responded with an amused look in his eyes which Jim was too far away to see, even if he had not been preoccupied with his own visions. Jim was past ten now, and not much of a favorite with other boys. But he was a prime favorite with himself.

"West P'int," mused Mrs. O'Callaghan. "Let him go there if he can.

'Twill be better than gettin' to be an agitator."

The widow continued her musings and finally she asked, "Where is West P'int, Jim?"

"It's where they make foightin' men out of boys."

"Is it far from here?"

"I don't know. I can get there anyway." His mother looked at him and she saw pugnacity written all over him. His close-cropped red hair, which was of a beautiful shade and very thick, stood straight on end all over his head. His very nature seemed belligerent.

"The trouble with you, Jim," she said, "is that you'd iver go foightin'

in toimes of peace. Foight when foightin's to be done, and the rest of the toime look plissant loike the Gineral."

"I ain't foightin' in times of peace any more," responded little Jim confidentially. "I ain't licked a boy for three weeks. Mebbe I won't lick any one all summer."

His mother sighed. "I should hope you wouldn't, Jim," she said. "'Tisn't gintlemanly to be lickin' any wan with your fist."

"And what would I be lickin' 'em with?" inquired Jim wonderingly.

"You're not to be lickin' 'em at all. Hear to me now, Jim, and don't be the only wan of your father's b'ys I'll have to punish. Wait till you get to your West P'int, and larn when and where to foight. Will you, Jim?"

Little Jim reflected. The request seemed a reasonable one, and so "I will," said he.