"When?" repeated the widow. "All in good toime, to be sure. Pat will be givin' Moike the Gineral's receipt, and the b'y that steps into Moike's place—and that'll be Andy, I'm thinkin'—he'll larn it of Moike, and so on, do you see?"
"And I was just thinkin'," put in Pat, with an encouraging glance at Mike, "that Jim Barrows's cookin' was like to be poor eatin'."
"True for you, my b'y!" exclaimed the widow. "The idea of that Jim Barrows a-cookin' niver struck me before. But, as you say, no doubt 'twould be poor. Them that's not above nignaggin' the unfortunate is apt to be thinkin' themsilves above cookin', and if they tried it wanst, no doubt their gravy would be a mixture of hot water and scorch, with, like enough, too little salt in it if it didn't have too much, and full of lumps besides. 'Tis your brave foightin' men and iligant gintlemen loike the Gineral that makes the good gravy."
CHAPTER VIII
"Pat, I forgot to give Mr. Brady the list of things that I want sent up this morning."
Pat looked up from his dishwashing sympathetically, for there was perplexity in the kindly tone and on the face no longer young.
It was always a mystery to the boy why Mrs. Brady called her husband "Mr. Brady" when everybody else said General Brady.
"But it's none of my business, of course," he told himself.
It was Saturday morning.