“What are your daddy’s like?”
Timsy fished laboriously in the pocket of his shirt.
“I got one here,” he said. “It came uncottoned, an’ fell off, an’ daddy said I could have it. Look—it’s nicer than yours.”
“Of course it is—isn’t your daddy a sergeant?” said Jim, gravely. Timsy looked up sharply, and was seized with compunction.
“Don’t you mind,” he said, hastily putting away his cherished button, lest dangling it before the eyes of his new friend should excite vain longings in his soul. He slipped a grimy little paw into Jim’s. “ ’Twill not be long at all before they make a sergeant of you. Can you hurry up an’ grow whiskers?”
“I’ll do my best,” returned Jim, laughing. “You’re a good old sportsman, Timsy. Have another cake.”
Timsy’s head was bent over the dish in the tremendous effort of selection, when a slight commotion was heard in the hall.
“I was without in the scullery,” said a high-pitched voice, “and I after giving him his tea. ‘Let you sit quiet there till I have a minute to put a decent appearance on you,’ says I. ‘ ’Tis not in them ould rags you’d be having the genthry see you,’ I says. With that I wint back, an’ the kitchen was as bare as the palm of me hand. I’ve called him till me throat’s cracking——”
“Is that you, Timsy?” whispered Norah. The dancing eyes of the culprit were sufficient answer.
“Blessed Hour!” said the voice of Mrs. Moroney, torn between relief and wrath. Her good-natured face hung in the doorway, presently followed by her ample form. “Is it you, then, Timsy Moroney, disgracing me and annoying the gentleman! Why would you have him on your knee, sir, and he the ragamuffin of the world? I’d not have you troubled with him.”