The fall term opened and found Mike the head of the O'Callaghan tribe, as the brothers had been jeeringly called by the Jim Barrows set. And Mike was a good head. The sort of boy to impress others with the good sense of minding their own business. His blue eyes had a determined look, as he came on the campus the first morning of the new term, that made his old persecutors think it best to withhold such choice epithets as "Biddy," "Kitchen Girl," and "Scrub Maid," which they had laid up for him. For they knew that it was Mike who now did housework at General Brady's. They had never seen Mike fight. He had always stood back and let Pat lead. But there was something in his erect and independent bearing on this autumn morning that made it very evident to the school bullies that if Mike did not fight it was not because he could not.

"Them O'Callaghans think they're some since General Brady picked 'em up," commented Jim Barrows, safely out of Mike's hearing.

"General Brady had never heard of them when Pat gave you a licking, Jim, or don't you remember?" asked Bob Farnham, who was passing.

"Say, Jim," advised a crony, as the two sauntered off together, "we'd better let them O'Callaghans alone. I don't like the looks of that Mike. 'Twasn't any wonder that Pat licked you, for you're not much on the fight anyway. But I tell you, I wouldn't like to tackle that Mike myself. He's one of them pleasant kind that's a regular tiger when you stir him up."

"He's been runnin' lawn mowers all summer," observed Jim reflectively. "I reckon he's got his muscle up. Don't know but we had best leave him alone."

"Let me tell you, Jim, 'twon't do just to let him alone. We've got to let 'em all alone—Andy and Jim and Barney and Tommie—or he'll light into us same as Pat did into you."

"Why can't a fellow do just his own fightin'," grumbled Jim Barrows, "and let the kids look out for themselves?"

"Some of 'em can, but the O'Callaghans ain't that kind. Touch one, touch 'em all, as you'd ought to know, Jim."

"Oh, shut up! You needn't be throwin' up that lickin' to me every minute. I was surprised, I tell you. Astonished, as I might say. I wasn't lookin' to be pitched into by a low down Irish boy."

"Oh, wasn't you?" queried his friend ironically. "Well, you keep on a-hectorin', and you'll be surprised again, or astonished, as you might say. That's all."

Jim Barrows had not looked into Mike's eye for nothing. He knew for himself the truth of all his companion had been saying, and from that hour the little boys had peace.

That same Monday was the most exciting and important day of his life to Pat. He saw other clerks lagging along without interest, and he wondered at them. Hitherto, in all transactions, he had been a buyer. Now he was to sell.

Farnham's store was on the west side of the square—a fair-sized room—but rather dark, and not the best place in the world to display goods. It was not even the best place in Wennott, the storerooms of both Wall and Arnold being newer and better fitted. But displaying goods was not Pat's affair that morning. It was his part to display a clean floor and well-dusted shelves and counters to the first customer.

Mr. Farnham came in at the hour when he had usually found his other boy through with the sweeping and dusting, and Pat was still using the broom. His employer, seeing the skillful strokes of the broom, wondered. But he was soon enlightened. Pat was not giving the middle of the floor a brush out. He was sweeping thoroughly into every corner where a broom could find entrance. For Pat knew nothing of "brush outs," though he knew all about clean floors. Every little while he stopped, swept up his collection into the dust-pan and carried it to a waste box in the back of the store. Mr. Farnham watched his movements. "He's business," he commented to himself. "Neither hurry nor lag."

At last Pat was through. One of the clerks came in, and she stared to see the shelves still wearing their dust curtains. But Pat was unconcerned. He had never opened a store before, nor seen one opened. He had been told to sweep out and dust, and he was obeying orders. That was all he was thinking about.

The sweeping done, Pat waited for the little dust that was flying to settle. Then he walked to the front end of the store and began to unhook the dust curtains. Very gingerly he took hold of them, being careful to disturb them as little as possible. Mr. Farnham and the girl clerk watched him. Every other boy had jerked them down and chucked them under the counter in a jiffy. Out went Pat with them to the rear door, gave them a vigorous shaking, brought them back, folded them quickly and neatly, and then, turning to Mr. Farnham said, "Where will you have 'em, sir?"

In silence Mr. Farnham pointed out a place, and then handed him a feather duster, showing him, at the same time, how to fleck the dust off the edges of the bolts of goods along the shelves, and also off the counter.

"This thing's no good for the glass show cases, sir. I'd ought to have a soft cloth. Something to take the dust up with, sir."

The merchant turned to the girl clerk. "Cut him off a square of cheesecloth, Miss Emlin, please," he said.

"Ordinary boy!" exclaimed Mr. Farnham to himself and thinking of the General. "I should say he wasn't. But cleaning up a store and selling goods are two different things."

It was a very small place that was given to Pat in the store that day—just the calicoes, ginghams, and muslins. And Pat was dissatisfied.

"'Tisn't much of a chance I've got," he murmured to himself. "Gingham—that's for aprons, and calico—that's for dresses, and muslin—that's for a lot of things. Maybe I'll sell something. But it looks as if I'd be doin' nothin', that's what it does."

He thought of the home folks and how his mother's mind would be ever upon him during this his first important day. "Maybe I'm a bit like little Jim—wantin' to do what I can't do. Maybe geese are my size," and he smiled. "Well, then I'll tend to my geese and tend 'em good, so I will."

He began emptying his calico tables upon the counter. Mr. Farnham saw him from the desk, and walked that way at once. "What's the matter, Pat?" he inquired.

"Sure I'm just gettin' acquainted with the goods, sir. I was thinkin' I could sell better, if I knew what I'd got. I'll put 'em back, sir, when I've looked 'em over."

And entirely satisfied with his newest clerk, though Pat did not suspect it, Mr. Farnham returned to his writing.

Pat had often noticed and admired the way in which the dry goods clerks ran off a length of goods, gathered it in folds, and held it up before the customer.

"If I thought nobody was lookin', I'd try it, so I would," he said to himself.

He glanced around. Nobody seemed to be paying any attention. Pat tried it, and a funny affair he made of it. Mr. Farnham, who was only apparently busy, had to exert all his will power to keep back a smile. For Pat, with the fear of observers before his eyes, unrolled the web with a softness that was almost sneaking; he held up the length with a trembling hand and a reddening cheek; and, putting his head on one side, regarded his imaginary customer with a shamefaced air that was most amusing.

Pat seemed to feel that he had made himself ridiculous. He sighed. "There's too much style to it for me yet," he said. "I'll just have to sell 'em plain goods without any flourishes. But I'll do it yet, so I will, only I'll practice it at home."

"And what did you be sellin' to-day, Pat dear?" asked his mother when at half-past nine he entered the kitchen door. She would not ask him at supper time. She wished to hear the sum total of the day's sales at once, and she had prepared her mind for a long list of articles.

"Well, mother," answered Pat drawing a long breath, "I sold two yards and a half of gingham."

The widow nodded. But Pat did not go on.

"And what else, Pat dear?"

"Nothin' else, mother."

Mrs. O'Callaghan looked astonished.

"That's little to be sellin' in a whole day," she observed. "Didn't you sell no silks and velvets and laces?"

"I'm not to sell them, mother."

"And why not?" with a mystified air.

"Sure and I don't know. I've just the calicoes and the ginghams and the muslins."

"Ah!" breathed the widow. And she sat silent in thought a while. The small lamp on the pine table burned brightly, and it lit up Pat's face so that with every glance his mother cast at him she read there the discouragement he felt.

"Pat dear," she began presently, "there's beginnin's in all things. And the beginnin's is either at the bottom or at wan ind, depindin' which way you're to go. Roads has their beginnin's at wan ind and runs on, round corners, maybe, to the other ind. Permotions begin at the bottom. You moind I was tellin' you 'twas loikely there was permotions in stores?"

Pat gazed at his mother eagerly. "Do you think so, mother?"

"I think so. Else why should they put the last hand in to sweepin' out and sellin' naught but ginghams and calicoes and muslins? And will you be tellin' me what the b'y that swept out before you is sellin'?" continued the little woman, anxious to prove the truth of her opinion.

"Sure and he ain't sellin' nothin'," responded the son. "He ain't there."

"And why not?" interrogated Mrs. O'Callaghan.

"I'm told he didn't do his work good."

Mrs. O'Callaghan looked grave. "Well," she said, "there's a lesson for them that needs it. There's gettin' out of stores as well as gettin' in, so there is. And now, Pat, cheer up. 'Tis loikely sellin' things is a business that's got to be larned the same as any other."

"Well, but, mother, I know every piece I've got, and the price of it."

"Can you measure 'em off handy and careless loike, so that a body wonders if you ain't makin' a mistake, and measures 'em over after you when they gets home, and then foinds it's all roight and trusts you the nixt toime?"

Pat was obliged to admit that he could not.

"And can you tie up a bundle quick and slick and make it look neat?"

Again Pat had to acknowledge his deficiency.

His mother regarded him with an air of triumph. "I knowed I could put my finger on the trouble if I thought about it. You've got it in you to sell, else Mr. Farnham wouldn't have asked for you. But he wants you for what you can do after a while more than for what you can do now. Remimber your beds and your cookin', Pat, and don't be bakin' beans by your own receipt down there to the store. It's a foine chance you've got, so 'tis. Maybe you'll be sellin' more to-morrow. And another thing, do you belave you've got jist as good calicoes and ginghams and muslins to sell as there is in town?"

"Yes, mother, I know I have."

"Then you've got to make the ladies belave it, too. And it won't be such a hard job, nayther, if you do your best. If they don't like wan thing, show 'em another. There's them among 'em as is hard to plaze, and remimber you don't know much about the ladies anyhow, havin' had to do only with your mother and Mrs. Gineral Brady. And there's different sorts of ladies, too, so there is, as you'll foind. It's a smart man as can plaze the half of 'em, but you'll come to it in time, if you try. Your father had a great knack at plazin' people, so he had, Pat. For folks mostly loikes them that will take pains for 'em; and your father was always obligin'. And you are, too, Pat, but kape on at it. Folks ain't a-goin' to buy nothin', if they can help it, from a clerk that ain't obligin'. Sellin' goods is pretty much loike doin' housework, you'll foind, only it's different."