After a moment’s sober thought Larry had replied:
“The job’s a cinch, an’ the money’s good; but, say, Pat, how do youse t’ink I’ll size up to the work? I can’t write a’tall an’ on’y kin read a little.”
“Now God forgi’mine for an ijit!” exclaimed Shannon. “Sure an I niver wanst thought av that. That puts an end till it, Larry; the work is beyant yez, b’y.”
Larry understood this and felt it keenly. He endeavoured to convey an impression of carelessness; but Shannon was not deceived.
“Common since’ll tell yez, Larry,” said he, kindly, “that the man that takes howld av me up-town branch must have a bit av larnin’. Give up runnin’ wid the gang, lad, an’ go till the night school.”
Larry paid very little attention to what the boss was saying; he was wrestling with the bitterness within him. But that night, as he was crossing the railroad on his way to the club, he noticed that a broad shaft of light flowed from each window of the old Harrison School, and then Shannon’s words came back to him. A group of boys were skylarking in the entry where a single gas light flared redly in the gloom.
“Night school?” inquired he of one of these.
“Sure,” answered the boy. “Started last week.”
His mind was made up in an instant, and he started up the stairs toward the principal’s room. But with his hand upon the door knob, he paused. What would the gang say when they heard? He pictured himself standing in the midst of them, an object of derision; he saw two of them meet upon the street and heard the laugh that greeted the words, “Larry Murphy’s goin’ to school, like a kid.” But he drove these visions from him, muttering:
“If they kid me, there’ll be somethin’ broke, that’s all!”