No more would his 9-year-old war-whoop resound around the corner. No more would the lake front know Timmy, his bare feet, and his stone bruises. Never again would he occupy the pitcher’s box and captain the “Red Hots, de champeens uv all de 9-year-olds on de wes’-side”—a nine which, through Capt. Timmy’s masterly inshoots, had attained proud preëminence. Never again would Timmy refresh his jaded spirits by throwing rocks at the Italian on the corner, who had incurred his enmity by once refusing him a banana.
Timmy was as sturdy a youngster as ever the west side turned out; he was as manly and self-reliant as the average Chicago 9-year-old. He was the cock of the walk among all his companions—the best swimmer, the best fighter, and the best pitcher in the ward. The neighborhood was lonesome without Timmy. People could not imagine “what was on the boy,” once so hearty and vigorous, to keep to his bed.
The little invalid lay stretched out on his couch as flat and as pallid as a pancake, in the front room away up in Sylvester Mulligan’s ten-story flat building. The neighbors were coming in droves to cheer up the ailing youngster.
“You’re not goan to lave me, yer poor ould mither, are ye, Timmy asthore?” wailed his mother, rocking from side to side in her frenzy of grief, like a ship in a storm, her voice choked with grief, her eyes drowned in tears.
“Ye were allus a dutiful child to me, Timmy alanna, and ye wud not be afther lavin’ yer poor old mither to fight the wurld alone, now wud ye? You’re the only boy I have left, Timmy, and ye’ll not lave me now afther raisin’ ye as long as I have. Sphake to him, Father Murphy; plase do, yer Rivirince—he’ll moind you; he wuz allus a good-hearted boy, though a thrifle wild. Rayson wid him, father; the fayver has rached his brain, and he turns his face to the wall from me. He won’t sphake to me. Oh, it’s heart-scalded I am!”
“What’s this I hear, Timmy, about your talking of dying,” cheerfully sung out the good Father Murphy, approaching the bedside of the little sufferer, and taking the boy’s wasted hand in his own. “Why, your worth a dozen dead men, yet. I could never spare you in the world. Who could I put in your place as monitor in the school; who else could I get to run my errands and to bring me my Evening News, eh? Why, Timmy, my boy, you are indispensable to the parish—you’re a little pillar of the church—all by yourself. You’re only pretending to be sick—you who were always so strong and hearty, with the rosiest cheeks and the brightest eye of all the lads for squares around. Brace up, and leave all thoughts of dying to old folks like your mother and myself. Do you hear, Tim?”
Tim did hear, nodding his head feverishly upon his clammy pillow. His eyes burned with an unnatural fire. They had the appealing glance of a wounded deer; it would melt your heart but to look at them.
The little invalid tossed uneasily upon the bed; his curling hair, damp with perspiration and pain, strayed uneasily o’er the pillow; his thin hands beat the coverlid with the petulance of a sturdy youngster unused to such close confinement. Yet he spoke not a word.
“Haven’t you a word for your old teacher, Tim, my boy?” asked Father Murphy, softly.
“Where’s Corkey O’Neill?” yelled out Timmy, suddenly, heedless of the worthy priest’s entreaty. “I wanter see Corkey; bring ’im up ’ere immejiate.”