He had been called “Tom Murphy” so long, sometimes only “lame Tom,” that Billy’s saying “Mr. Murphy” had made him sit up very straight, while he was waiting for Billy to sharpen the pencil.
Mr. Prescott thought that he really appreciated Tom. He always said, “Tom Murphy is as faithful as the day is long”; but even Mr. Prescott didn’t know so much about Tom as he thought he did. If Billy and Tom hadn’t become friends, Mr. Prescott would probably never have learned anything about the “Mr. Murphy” side of Tom.
After that morning, Billy and Tom kept on getting acquainted, until one day when Uncle John had to go out one noon to see about some new window screens for Aunt Mary, Billy went to the door to see Tom.
Tom, having just sat down in his chair, was trying to get his lame leg into a position where it would be more comfortable.
“Does your leg hurt, Mr. Murphy?” asked Billy.
“Pretty bad to-day, William,” answered Thomas Murphy with a groan. “If it wasn’t so dry, I should think, from the way my leg aches, that it was going to rain, but there’s no hope of that.”
“It’s rheumatism, isn’t it?” asked Billy, sympathetically.
“Part of it is,” answered Tom, “but before that it was crush. I hope you don’t think I’ve never done anything but mark time at Prescott mill.
“I suppose that you think you’ve seen considerable iron in this yard and in this mill; but you don’t know half so much about iron as I did when my legs were as good as yours.
“Out West, where I was born, there are acres and acres and acres of iron almost on top of the ground; and, besides that, a whole mountain of iron.”