After Dick had gone upstairs with his father, Barney and his mother sat together talking over the doings of the day after their invariable custom.
“He is looking thin, I am thinking,” said the mother.
“Oh, he's right enough. A few days after the reaper and a few meals out of your kitchen, mother, and he will be as fit as ever.”
“That was a fine work of yours with the doctor.” The indifferent tone did not deceive her son for a moment.
“Oh, pshaw, that was nothing. At least it seemed nothing then. There were things to be done, blood to be stopped, skin to be sewed up, and I just did what I could.” The mother nodded slightly.
“You did no more than you ought, and that great Tom Magee might be doing something better than lying on his back on the floor like a baby.”
“He couldn't help himself, mother. That's the way it struck him. But, man, it was fine to see the doctor, so quick and so clever, and never a slip or a stop.” He paused abruptly and stood upright looking far away for some moments. “Yes, fine! Splendid!” he continued as in a dream. “And he said I had the fingers and the nerve for a surgeon. That's it. I see now—mother, I'm going to be a doctor.”
His mother stood and faced him. “A doctor? You?”
The sharp tone recalled her son.
“Yes, me. Why not?”