“Yis; an’ ye were the vagabond av the worruld for doin’ that same, Misther Longman. Sure ye knew she nivir meant it, an’ yez leaving must ha’ broke her heart, and yez her onliest one in the worruld.”
“What would you have had me to do, Mike?” inquired Longman very patiently.
“What wad I hev had ye to do, is it? Why, to hev gone to worruk on the farm and mindded yer ways from that hour, and hed the rint reddy on pay day. That’s what I wud hev had ye to do, Misther Longman. I nivir hed a mither; me and me twin swishter, Judy, was orphint childer—born so—and nivir knowed a mither. But if I hed hed a mither, and she had got mad at me and put me out av the front door, I’d ’a’ kem in at the back one. I wud nivir hev deserted me own mither—nivir! But I nivir hed a mither, and thim as has blessings nivir vally thim. I’m spaking me mind, Misther Longman, and ye may dooble me oop and fling me over the bank and brek me neck at the bottom of the gulch if ye like, for ye’re twice as big and strong as meself, but I’m bound to spake me mind!” exclaimed the Irish boy excitedly, digging his hands in his trousers pockets and straightening himself up.
“Give me your hand, Mike. You are a brave, true young fellow, and all that you say is right. Now, then, I must tell you that I have not neglected my mother. I wrote to her before I sailed from London, telling her where I was going. I also wrote to her from ’Frisco. I have written to her from every available point where I have taken up my abode. But I have never had an answer to any letter. She must have discarded me, and perhaps married again, for she was a comely woman, only thirty-eight years old, when I left her.”
“Did it nivir occur till ye that the letthers might be lost in a wild, onsartin part uv the worruld like this?” inquired Mike.
“Yes, I have thought of that. And lately—I don’t know why—the thought has grown upon me that my poor mother may be lonely and pining for her prodigal son. I cannot get rid of that thought. It haunts me day and night. That is why I have made up my mind to go home and make friends with my mother.”
“As if she ivir was anything else but frinds wi’ ye, Sam, darlint!” broke in Mike. He had stopped calling his comrade “Misther Longman.”
“I didn’t mean that exactly. I meant to make it all up with her, and to her, if I could. To give her all the money I have saved, to make her comfortable for life; and then come back to the free woods and the free game.”
“Less ye could win to a keeper’s place in the owld counthry,” put in Mike.
“Yes; but that’s a dream,” laughed Longman.