Timmy's Rally

Little Titnmy Mulligan was very sick. Some of his chums said in an awed whisper, "He is dyin' dis time, sure pop." No more wonld his 9-year-old war whoop resound around the corner. No more would thelake front knowTimmy, his bare feet, and his etone bruises. Never again wonld he occnpy the pitcher box and captain the "Red Hots, de champeens nv all de 9-year-olds on de wee'-side"- a nine which, through Capt. Timmy's masterly inshoots, had attained proud pre-eminence. Never again wonld Timmy refresh his jaded spirits by throwing rocks at the Italian on the corner, who had incnrred his enmity by once refusing him a banana. Timmy was as sturdy a yonngster as ever the west side tnrned out; he waa as manly and self reliant as the average Chicago 0-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 withont Tümny. People conld 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 conch as flat and pallid as a pancake, in the front room away up in Sylvester Mnlligan'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 ashore?" wailed his mother, rocking from side to side in her frenzy of grief, like a snip in a storm, her voice choked with grief, her eyes drowned in tears. "Ye were allus a dutiful chüd to me, Timmy alanna, and ye wud not be afther lavin' yer poor old mither to fight the warld alone, now wud ye? You're the only boy I have left, Tunmy, and yeil not lave me now afther raisin' ye as long as I have. Sphake to him, Father Murphy; piase do, yer rivirince - he'll moind you. He wbz allus a good hearted boy, fchough a trifle wild. Rayson wid him, father. The fayver bas rached his brain, and he turna his face to the wall from me. He won't sphake to me. Oh, it'a heart scalded I am!" "What's this I hear, Timmy, about your talking of dying?" cheerfnlly sung out the good Father Murphy, approaching the bedside of the little sufferer and taking the boy's wasted hand in his own. "Why, you're worth a dozen dead men yet. I conld never spare yon 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 litüe pülar of the church- all by yonrself. 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 folk like your mother and myself. Do you hear, Tim?" Tim did hear, nodding his head feveriflhly upon his clanxmy pillow. TTi eyes burned with an unnatural fire. They had the appealing glance of a wounded deer; it would melt your heart bat to look at them. The little invalid tossed uneasily upon the bed; his curling hair, damp with perspiration and pain, strayed uneasily oier the pillow; his thin hands beat the coverüd with the petoiance of a stnrdy youngster mraeed to sneh close confinement. Yet he spoke not a word. "Haven't yoa a word for your old teacher, Tim, my boy?" asked Faüier Mnrphy, Bofüy. "Where's Corkey Cmeilir yelled out Timmy suddenly, beedleesof theworthy póest'e eofcreat y . ' 1 wanter see Carkey ; bring ïm up 'ere immejiate. " Corkey was instanüy produced, shufffing Bhamefacedly across the room to the bedside of his stricken comzade. Tim's brow was kmited in medïtation. His fingers plsjed a tatfcoo on the bianket. He had a load on his mind he wanted to dump. Tnnrmg restlessly, he unboxdened himself thns: "I done ye up two weeks ter day, Corkey." Corkey admitfced the "doing up." "Bot I fout ye fair, Corkey; I didn't use brasa kn-uckleer Corkey wás forced to dedate that brass kirackles took no part in öie yooihful encotmter. "Ye sed I wnz a 'anide,' Corkey, diáirtí fe?" It aroeared that Corkey had said sa. "I t'umpecl ye pretty hurd. I blacked both o' yer fyes--or wnz it ony one?" Ifc WO8 "o:iy oue," for O iv:.v .fjl] bore tliB echo of it on his lñ 1 1 r ¦ il ic. "Weil, wot I wanter sy, Cürkoy, is Fin sorry I bunged yon op i bad. I don't believe I could whip you the vrav I ain kere, but ef you wam f.atisfaction ye can tíike it out o' me now - if you bear enny hard feelings." ''I wouldn't hit a dying kid, not fer de huil west side," cried ont Corkey, sobbing as if his heart would break; "ye only guv me wot I deserved, Timmy. ] had no right roastin' yon de way I did.' 'Who duz the Red Hots play a Sunday?" "We wuz a goan to play de Hard Times, Timmy, but now dat yon're sick an' can't pitch we've declared the match off; we'd git skunked." "Wot did ye do dat for?" savagely exclaiined Timmy. "I'veagood mind to black yer other eye for ye." "Well, weall made op we wtidn"tplay till ye got well, Tim; it's no use going out on de dimund unless yon're pitchin'." Mr. Muliigan appeared to see matters in the proper light "Well, I guess you're about right, Corkey," he was moved to admit. "I guess I'll hav ter get well. I wanter skunk dat crowd of Hard Times wid me inshoots and me new snake curve that Tve been studying out here the last two weeks while I've been rastlin' wid de blankets. Wot duz de gang say about me, Corkey, layin' here in me bed on the flat o' me back, like an oíd granny - me who Wuz never sick bef ore?" "Say, Tim, dey're orful sorry; thed cum up here themselves to see ye, ony yer ole 'oonian wudn't let 'em." "Stick yer hed out uv the windy and yell for 'em tocomeup," commanded the proetrate pitcher. Corkey thrust his Bulwer Lytton brow out of the window, emitting a yell that caused all the members of the Bed Hots to file into the room on tiptoe, wiping their mouths with their coat sleeves, and hanging their heads. "Helio, fellere!" "Helio, Tim!" "Wot's de matter wid ye, Phüly Bnrke? Wot are ye snivellin' f or? Didn't ye ever see a sick kid before? An' you, too, Patsy Carroll- why, I nivir see sich weakeners as you kids before in all me lite. You're a nice gang to let yonrself be bluffed by them Hard Times crowd. Ye have no more sand in yer craw than a chicken. Tve a good notion to sick me poodle on de huil gang o' ye. Cum up yere, Danger!" The little black and tan that had retreated under the bureau, where he kept up gro wling and showing his teeth at the crowd of strange visitors, jumped up on the bed and began licking his youthful master's hand. Then, turning round, he glared fiercely at the roomful of sympathizers, his tail lashing the bed, his little black nose uplifted defiantly. He showed his teeth in a subdued and dangerous snarl, ás if looking out for the shins o: the undertaker. All through little Tim's sickness the dog liad hung around his master's room in a subdued and listless manner. When not squatting on the sick boy's pillow, licking Tim's hot anc feverish hand and vigilantly guardrog his re6tless slumber, the dog wonldsiiui away under the bed, as if the boy's illness had affected him also, and hai cowed his honest bark and native pluck into a cowardly snarling and showing of his ricaous teeth. "If that dood of a doctor comes keying aronnd here enny morea-pizening me witfa the medicines he makes me swaller, well giv hiyn hydrophoby - won't we, Danger?" Danger showed his red gttms in fierce assent. "Where's me crald woman?" "Here I am, Timmy asthore; what is it?" "Sind out the kittle for a quart o' beer. I wanter do the right thing and treat de gang as has called on me. I guess ifll be about square. Whin ye go overwith the growler to Danny Shay's, Corkey, mind ye scoop in all the free lunch ye can crib. I guess I cotüd go a little cheese sandwich meself. Be sure you teil Danny Shay to pack the growler as tight as he can, Corkey," was the latter part of the languid yet hospitable injunction of the stricken Timmy, as he turned over on his side for a refreshing slumber, the vigilant Danger snugly perched on his flfth rib. Mx. Mulligan, I am pleased to state, recovered in time to give the Hard Times the worst skunMng they ever got. In that match, digging his toenails in the pitcher's box, his cap cocked rakishly over his left eye, and Danger coaching "on de side" and howling like a demon when his master strnck out any of the opposing batsmen, Timtny ladled out to the demoralized Hard Times those justly celebrated curves oí his, reinforced with the famous snake shoot wMch he had acquired while tossing oranges on a feverish bed. Timmy was carried home to the Nineteenth ward in triumph, Danger bringing up the rear, leaving in his trail the vibratine' air churned to a white heat bv his waesrmer