“Beck, my old partner, I said I had good news for you. Our son and his regiment—three times eleven, eleven times three—the gallant thirty-third, are in Dublin.”
Beck laid down her stocking, and her eyes sparkled with delight.
“But that's not all, old girl, he has risen from the ranks—his commission has been just made out, and he is now a commissioned officer in his majesty's service. But I knew it would come to that. Didn't I say so, old comrade, eh?”
“Indeed you did, Sam,” replied his wife; “and I thought as much myself. There was something about that boy beyond the common.”
“Ay, you may say that, girl; but who found it out first? Why, I did; but the thing was natural; it's all the heart of man—when that's in the right place nothing will go wrong. What do you say, friend Dunphy? Did you think it would ever come to this?”
“Troth, I did not, Mr. Roberts; but it's you he may thank for it.”
“God Almighty first, Dunphy, and me afterwards. Well, he shan't want a father, at all events; and so long as I have a few shiners to spare, he shan't want the means of supporting his rank as a British officer and gentleman should. There's news for you, Dunphy. Do you hear that, you old dog—eh?”
“It's all the heart of man, Sam,” observed his wife, eying him with affectionate admiration. “When the heart's in the right place, nothing will go wrong.”
Now, nothing gratified Sam so much as to hear his own apothegms honored by repetition.
“Eight, girl,” he replied; “shake hands for that. Dunphy, mark the truth of that. Isn't she worth gold, you sinner?”