Six weeks after the incidents narrated in the previous chapter had taken place, our young genius was at work in his favorite shed, trying the strength of his wagon in all parts, when the rear door of his father’s house was thrown open and our Hibernian friend rushed down the walk yelling out at the top of a sound pair of lungs:
“Frank, me brave gossoon.”
“Barney!” gladly cried the boy, and then he deserted his work and sprang forward to meet his old friend.
“You dear old rollicking roarer,” he said, seizing Barney’s hand with a fervor that attested his liking for the big-hearted Irishman. “How are Mrs. O’Doolah—I beg her pardon, Mrs. Faylix O’Doolahan and the pigs?”
“Well an’ hearty,” laughed Barney. “And how do I foind ye!”
“In the same condition as Mrs. O’Doolahan and the porkers,” smiled Frank.
“And up till your eyes in woruk?”
“Right,” said Frank. “I told you I could do it, and I’ve done it. Just walk into the workshop and look at my nag.”
“I will that,” said Barney; and into the wood-shed he and Frank tramped.
“Musha my God, but that’s nate!” muttered Shea, gazing with admiration and some wonder at the noble looking steed of metal that stood there. “An’ ye have the conthrivance all complate?”