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“O mother,” he began, excitedly, and stopped. Only lately had he called her “mother” in his serious moments, and the name gave her pain as well as pleasure, for it was one more announcement of the coming man. To-day she was happy. It had fallen to her to general this great feast that Billy’s mates had planned for the celebration of his birthday. All had contributed. Not only the girls had cooked—Jean had baked a big cake, Jackson had made the candy, and Jimmy and George had sneaked up from the “Front,” and set up the long table in the arbor. “My father didn’t let my mother work when he was alive; but he—he died.” Billy bent lower over his weeding, and both were quiet..
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He saw the men stop, draw apart, and look around. They discovered no one, but delayed their quarrel and hurried in the direction of the sound, exchanging short angry speeches as they ran. “You don’t want to see your mother now, do you, boy? No more do you feel like jabbering with Bess at our table. Come over to the hotel, and we’ll lunch together.” “Don’t Job look jist like Mariar Mifsud goin’ to meetin’,” gurgled Betty. Mr. Wopp, goaded to desperation, breathed audibly his opinion regarding pipe-fitting. Diogenes in one of his periodical excursions from his tub would have been glad to category that remark as an honest man’s attitude, at least toward certain jobs..
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