The sugar was sifted over the table, his egg-shells were on the floor, and a path of flour led to the barrel when, three-quarters of an hour later, the widow stepped in. But there was a roaring fire and the pudding was baking.
"Well, Jim," cried his mother, "'tis a big fire you've got, sure. But I don't see no potatoes a-cookin'."
Jim looked blank. He had forgotten the potatoes. He had been so busy coaling up the fire.
"Run and get 'em," directed his mother. "There's no toime for palin' 'em. We'll have to b'ile 'em with their jackets on."
But there was no time even for that, for Pat and Mike came in to supper and could not be kept waiting.
Hastily the widow got the dishpan and washed off the sticky table, and her face, as Jim could see, was very sober. Then, while Jim set the table, Pat fried the steak and Mike brushed up the flour from the floor.
And now a burnt smell was in the air. It was not the steak. It seemed to seep out of the oven.
"Open the oven door, Jim," commanded Mrs. O'Callaghan, after one critical sniff.
The latest cook of the O'Callaghans obeyed, and out rolled a cloud of smoke. The pudding had boiled over and flooded the oven bottom. Poor Jim!