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?"

Little Jim reflected. The request seemed a reasonable one, and so "I will," said he.

Evening after evening he drove the cows and gave his commands at the corners of the streets. And the cows plodded on, swinging their tails to brush the flies away from their sides, stopping here and there where a mouthful of grass might be picked up, stirring the dust in dry weather with their dragging feet, and sinking hoof-deep in the mud when there had been rain. But always little Jim was the commander—even when the rain soaked him and ran in rills from his hat brim.

On rainy mornings Andy, wearing rubber boots and a rubber coat and carrying an umbrella, picked his way along, following his obedient charges to the pasture gate. But little Jim liked to have bare legs and feet and to feel the soft mud between his toes, and the knowledge that he was getting wetter and wetter was most satisfactory to him. At home there was always a clean shirt and a pair of cottonade pantaloons waiting for him, and nothing but a "Well, Jim!" by way of reproof.

"File right!" little Jim would cry, or "File left!" as the case might be. And when the street corner was turned, "Forward!"

All this circumstance and show had its effect on the two small Morton boys and at last, on a pleasant June evening, they began to mock him.

Jim stood it silently for a quarter of a second, while his face grew red. Then he burst out, "I'd lick both of you, if I was sure this was a where or when to foight!"

His persecutors received this information with delight, and repeated it afterward to their older brother with many chuckles.

"Lucky for you!" was his answer. "He can whip any boy in town of your size." Whereat the little fellows grew sober, and recognized the fact that some scruple of Jim's not understood by them had probably saved them unpleasant consequences of their mockery.

Jim's ambition, in due time, came to the ears of General Brady, and very soon thereafter the old soldier, who had now taken the whole O'Callaghan family under his charge, contrived to meet the boy.

"Jim," said he, "I hear you're quite set on West Point. I also hear that you did not stand well in your classes last year. I advise you to study hard hereafter."

Jim touched his hat in military style. "What's larnin' your lessons got to do with bein' a foightin' man, sir?" he asked respectfully.

"A great deal, my boy. If you ever get to West Point you will have to study here, and you will have to go to school there besides."

Jim sighed. "You can't get to be nothin' you want to be without doin' a lot you don't want to do," he said despondently. "I was goin' to have a bank loike you, sir, but my mother said the first steps to it was dustin' and dishwashin', so I give up the notion."

The General laughed and little Jim went his way, but he remembered the General's words. As the summer waned and the time for school approached the cows heard no more "File right! File left! Forward!" Little Jim had no love for study and he drove with a "Hi, there! Get along with you!" But it was all one to the cows. And so his dreams of West Point faded. He began to study the cook book, for now Andy was to go to General Brady's, and on two days of the week he was to make the family happy with his puddings. Mrs. O'Callaghan, having but two days out now, had decided to do the cooking herself on those days when she was at home.

But never a word said little Jim to his mother on the subject of puddings. "I can read just how to make 'em. I'll not be botherin' her," he thought. "Pat and Mike is always wantin' her to take it aisy. She can take it aisy about the puddin', so she can."

The week before school began his mother had given him some instructions of a general character on cooking and sweeping and bed-making. "I'm home so much, Jim," she told him, "that I'll let you off with makin' the bed where you're to slape with Mike. That you must make so's to be larnin' how."

"Wan bed's not much," said little Jim airily.

"See that you makes it good then," was the answer.

"And don't you be burnin' the steak nor soggin' the potatoes," was her parting charge when she went to her washing on Monday, the first day of school.

"Sure and I won't," was the confident response. "I know how to cook steak and potatoes from watchin' Andy."

That night after school little Jim stepped into Mr. Farnham's store. "I'm needin' a few raisins for my cookin'," he said to Pat.

Pat looked surprised, but handed him the money and little Jim strutted out.

"What did Jim want?" asked Mike when he had opportunity.

"Raisins for his cooking." And both brothers grinned.

"I'll just be doin' the hardest first," said little Jim as, having reached home, he tossed off his hat, tied on his apron, and washed his hands. "And what's that but the puddin'?"

He slapped the pudding dish out on the table, opened his paper of raisins, ate two or three just to be sure they were good, and then hastily sought the cook book. It opened of itself at the pudding page, which little Jim took to be a good omen. "Puddin's the thing," he said.

"Now how much shall I make? Barney and Tommie is awful eaters when it comes to somethin' good, and so is Larry. I'd ought to have enough."

He read over the directions.

"Seems to me this receipt sounds skimpin'," was his comment. "Somethin's got to be done about it. Most loike it wasn't made for a big family, but for a little wan loike General Brady's."

He ate another raisin.

"A little puddin's just nothin'," he said. "I'll just put in what the receipt calls for, and as much more of everything as it seems to need."

Busily he measured and stirred and tasted, and with every taste more sugar was added, for little Jim liked sweets. At last it was ready for the oven, even down to the raisins, which had been picked from their stems and all unwashed and unstoned cast into the pudding basin. And never before had that or any other pudding dish been so full. If Jim so much as touched it, it slopped over.

"And sure and that's because the puddin' dish is too little," he remarked to himself. "They'll have to be gettin' me a bigger wan. And how long will it take it to bake, I wonder? Till it's done, of course."

He turned to the stove, which was now in the house again, and the fire was out.

"Huh!" exclaimed little Jim. "I'll soon be makin' a fire."

He rushed for the kindling, picking out a swimming raisin as he ran. "They'll see the difference between Andy's cookin' and mine, I'm thinkin'. Dustin' and dishwashin'! Just as if I couldn't cook with the best of them!"

The sugar was sifted over the table, his egg-shells were on the floor, and a path of flour led to the barrel when, three-quarters of an hour later, the widow stepped in. But there was a roaring fire and the pudding was baking.

"Well, Jim," cried his mother, "'tis a big fire you've got, sure. But I don't see no potatoes a-cookin'."

Jim looked blank. He had forgotten the potatoes. He had been so busy coaling up the fire.

"Run and get 'em," directed his mother. "There's no toime for palin' 'em. We'll have to b'ile 'em with their jackets on."

But there was no time even for that, for Pat and Mike came in to supper and could not be kept waiting.

Hastily the widow got the dishpan and washed off the sticky table, and her face, as Jim could see, was very sober. Then, while Jim set the table, Pat fried the steak and Mike brushed up the flour from the floor.

And now a burnt smell was in the air. It was not the steak. It seemed to seep out of the oven.

"Open the oven door, Jim," commanded Mrs. O'Callaghan, after one critical sniff.

The latest cook of the O'Callaghans obeyed, and out rolled a cloud of smoke. The pudding had boiled over and flooded the oven bottom. Poor Jim!

"What's in the oven, Jim? Perhaps you'll be tellin' us," said his mother gravely.

"My puddin'," answered little Jim, very red in the face.

At the word pudding the faces of Barney and Tommie and Larry, who had come in very hungry, lit up. But at the smell they clouded again. A pudding lost was worse than having no pudding to begin with. For to lose what is within reach of his spoon is hard indeed for any boy to bear.

"And what was it I told you to be cookin' for supper?" asked the widow when they had all sat down to steak and bread and butter, leaving the doors and windows wide open to let out the pudding smoke.

But little Jim did not reply and his downcast look was in such contrast to his erect hair, which no failure of puddings could down, that Pat and Mike burst out laughing. The remembrance of the raisins little Jim had so pompously asked for was upon them, too. And even Mrs. O'Callaghan smiled.

"Was it steak and potatoes I told you to be cookin'?" she persisted.

Little Jim nodded miserably.

"I'll not be hard on you, Jim," said his mother, "for I see you're ashamed of yourself, and you ought to be, too. But I'll say this to you; them that cooks puddin's when they're set to cook steak and potatoes is loike to make a smoke in the world, and do themsilves small credit. Let's have no more puddin's, Jim, till I give you the word."

That was all there was of it. But Jim had lost his appetite for pudding, and it was long before it returned to him.