CHAPTER XIX
There were three to sit by the kitchen stove now and talk of an evening from half-past nine till ten, and they were the widow and Pat and Mike.
"It's Andy that makes me astonished quite," observed Mrs. O'Callaghan. "Here it is the first of December and him three months at Gineral Brady's and gettin' fat on it. He niver got fat to home, and that's what bates me."
"Well, mother, he's got a nice big room by himself to sleep in. The Physiology's down on crowding, and five boys in one bedroom ain't good for a nervous boy like Andy."
"Nor it ain't good for the rest of you, nayther," responded Mrs. O'Callaghan, with conviction.
"What do you say, b'ys? Shall we ask the landlord to put us on another room in the spring? He'll raise the rint on us if he does."
The widow regarded her sons attentively, and they, feeling the proud responsibility of being consulted by their mother, answered as she would have them.
"Then that's settled," said she. "The more room, the more rint. Any landlord can see that—a lawyer, anyway. Do you think, b'ys, Andy'll be a lawyer when he comes from college?"
"Why, mother?" asked Pat.
"'Cause I don't want him to be. He ain't got it in him to be comin' down hard and sharp on folks, and so he won't be a good wan. He'll be at the law loike little Jim at puddin's. You niver was to coort, was you, b'ys?"