He had been out with
his goat when some children from the tenements surrounded his
cart, pitched it into the ditch, and followed him half way home,
calling "Scab! scab!" at the top of their voices. Cully heard
his cries, and ran through the yard to meet him, his anger rising
at every step. To lay hands on Patsy was, to Cully, the
unpardonable sin. Ever since the day, five years before, when Tom
had taken him into her employ, a homeless waif of the
streets,--his father had been drowned from a canal-boat she was
unloading,--and had set him down beside Patsy's crib to watch
while she was at her work, Jennie being at school, Cully had loved
the little cripple with the devotion of a dog to its master.
Lawless, rough, often cruel, and sometimes vindictive as Cully was
to others, a word from Patsy humbled and softened him.
And Patsy loved Cully. His big, broad chest, stout, straight
legs, strong arms and hands, were his admiration and constant
pride. Cully was his champion and his ideal. The waif's
recklessness and audacity were to him only evidences of so much
brains and energy.
This love between the lads grew stronger after Tom had sent to
Dublin for her old father, that she might have "a man about the
house." Then a new blessing came, not only into the lives of both
the lads, but into the whole household as well.
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