Dick Lionheart | Page 2

tell ye? His mother's
dead and I begged him, and when he's a bit bigger, if I can rare him, he

shall be your very own."
Dick fairly gasped with delight, as the little warm bundle was put into
his arms, for he had never had a pet, or anything living, of his own, to
love since his father died.
"And his name's 'Pat,' unless there's something you'd like better, and I'll
kape him till he's big enough to look after himself."
Suddenly Dick's face changed, and a sob came into his throat as he said,
"Oh, Paddy, it's so good of you to offer him, but they'll never let me
have him to keep. There is nowhere I could hide him, and Tim would
hurt him every time he came near."
"Bad luck to him then, for a ondacent spalpeen as he is. It's a shame
how they trate you. Oh, oi know, without telling. But shure, ye won't be
there for ever. They've no claim on ye at all, at all. The bit of money
your father left, and the insurance, have paid for your keep over and
over, to say nothing of the work you're doing for that lazybones all the
while. If you could only get to Ironboro' now, and find your Uncle
Richard, he'd see you righted. And more by token he's a fitter, and
would put you in the way of the same trade, and give you engines to
your heart's content."
Dick's face was a study, as he held the puppy closely in his arms and
looked up eagerly at Paddy.
"Do you mean that the Fowleys are not relations, and that I'm not
beholden to stay there?"
"No relations in the world, me boy; and if I was you, I'd be off some
fine morning and give 'em the slip. Your poor father was only a lodger
there, after your mother died, and they took all he had and kept you, so
to say, out of charity. Of course you was too young to know any
different. I was well acquainted with your father and your uncle, years
agone, but he had got work at Ironboro' long before your father died."
"And which is the way to Ironboro', and what is a fitter?"

"Ironboro'? Oh that's a hundred and fifty miles off, way up in the north,
and you couldn't walk it yet, all alone. But some day---- And a fitter is
a man who has learned his trade making engines, and can pull them to
pieces, and put them together again as easy as I can fire these stoke
holes."
Dick gently put the puppy back into the basket and straightened himself,
like one taking a great resolve.
"Thank you, Paddy, ever so much for telling me, and if you'll only keep
Pat till I can go, I'll save him a bit of my dinner every day."
"Indade and you won't, then, seein' as your dinner's none too hearty,
judging by the leanness of your bones. No, I've no chick nor child of
me own, and shure I can let the cratur alone enough to pay the
milkman's bill for this little mite. You'll have to bring the dinner every
day this week, and you'll see he'll get on fine in that time."
Dick gave his friend a hug of gratitude, and kissed Pat's silky head
before he went away. And he hurried home and washed the dinner
things, and cleared up the untidy kitchen like one in a dream.
Sometimes it seemed to Dick that all his work went for nothing at all,
for Mrs. Fowley always muddled things as soon as she came in.
She might have kept the house well on her husband's wages, but a large
slice went to the "Blue Dragon," and out of the remainder she never
had any left by the middle of the week. And she never did any work
that could possibly be handed over to Dick, and the boy was in very
truth the "slavey" they called him, and he rarely had enough to eat.
Now she told him that he must stay away from school that afternoon
and mind the baby, as she had business down the road at a neighbour's.
And slipping a black bottle under her apron, she went out, and Susy,
the youngest but one, followed her, leaving the baby fretting in the old
wooden box that served as cradle.
As soon as Dick had finished he took her out into the dreary little
garden and tried to pacify her. She was generally good with him, but
the heat, and teething, had made her fretful, and he had to walk up and

down the cinder path till his arms ached almost beyond bearing. She
went to sleep at last, and