"They may be," replied Pat, "but Andy will have Mike on one side of him and me on the other, and we'll make it all right." "That we will," cried Mike enthusiastically. "By the time he needs to go I'll be making forty dollars a month myself, and little Jim will be earning for himself." Sturdy Mike as he spoke cast an encouraging look on his favorite brother, who laid by his frown and put on at once an air of importance. "I'm goin' to be a foightin' man loike the Gineral," he announced pompously. "Well, well," cried the widow. "I'm gettin' old fast. You'll all be growed up in a few minutes." And then they all laughed. But presently the mother said, "Thank God for brothers as is brothers. Andy is goin' to college sure." CHAPTER XVIII Summer time came again. The stove went out into the airy kitchen, and a larger flock of geese squawked in the weeds and ditches. Again Andy and Jim drove the cows, Andy of a morning with a dreamy stroll, and Jim of an evening with a strut that was intended for a military gait. Who had told little Jim of West Point, the family did not know. But he had been told by somebody. And his cows were to him as a battalion to be commanded. The General used to watch him from his front veranda with a smile. Somewhere Jim had picked up the military salute, and he never failed to honor the General with it as he strutted past with his cows. And always the old soldier responded with an amused look in his eyes which Jim was too far away to see, even if he had not been preoccupied with his own visions. Jim was past ten now, and not much of a favorite with other boys. But he was a prime favorite with himself. "West P'int," mused Mrs. O'Callaghan. "Let him go there if he can. 'Twill be better than gettin' to be an agitator." The widow continued her musings and finally she asked, "Where is West P'int, Jim?" "It's where they make foightin' men out of boys." "Is it far from here?" "I don't know. I can get there anyway." His mother looked at him and she saw pugnacity written all over him. His close-cropped red hair, which was of a beautiful shade and very thick, stood straight on end all over his head. His very nature seemed belligerent. "The trouble with you, Jim," she said, "is that you'd iver go foightin' in toimes of peace. Foight when foightin's to be done, and the rest of the toime look plissant loike the Gineral." "I ain't foightin' in times of peace any more," responded little Jim confidentially. "I ain't licked a boy for three weeks. Mebbe I won't lick any one all summer." His mother sighed. "I should hope you wouldn't, Jim," she said. "'Tisn't gintlemanly to be lickin' any wan with your fist." "And what would I be lickin' 'em with?" inquired Jim wonderingly. "You're not to be lickin' 'em at all. Hear to me now, Jim, and don't be the only wan of your father's b'ys I'll have to punish. Wait till you get to your West P'int, and larn when and where to foight. Will you, Jim?"