Weymouth High School - Campus / Reflector Yearbook (Weymouth, MA)

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He was fast learning that there was a great difference be- tween the folks over the water and the folks here. Some folks that he had known all the time over there he found to be dif- ferent here, somehow. He couldn ' t understand it. Coming home of an evening it happened. A disabled touring-car was drawn up at the side of the road, and the car stopped beside it and then went on again. There was a general craning forward of necks and a buzz of conversa- tion. Mike only glanced at the two men who came up the aisle, seeing that they were both young and neither laborers and re- solved to keep his seat. At a second glance, however, he rubbed his eyes in doubt. He had seen that face before in the headings of newspapers. It was Sandys of whom Denny had said, He is a grat man, a gud man Make this man your frend. Denny had not brought Mikey up in vain, for he rose, doffed his hat, and said with an awkward bow, Mister Sandys, tak ' my seat. It was a tribute, straight from the heart, but the man did not see it as such, for he only turned a dull red and looked puzzled, and said to his companion, Who is this fellow? Mike was terrified, the voice was so cutting. That such a man- ner could go with such a record as this man had was beyond him. But he was fast learning that a good record in this land sometimes means only a path builded on the dead hopes of others, and strewn with the broken shafts of their lives. So all the way home the two stood there, the empty seat between them. When Mike swung off at the barn he was cold and blue from his first experience with millionaires. Mikey was listening to the birdies that sang, and to the wind that sang, and to the trees, and other things that were sharing the bounties of Nature ' s voice, that was making itself heard loud-like. He had just scraped the dying remains from his pipe, and the dead thoughts from his mind, when a new, more vibrant note introduced itself into the song. Looking up, he saw the first car of the day coming down the track with Steve at the brake and forty Polacks hanging on behind. Steve never ought to have gone on to that piece of track over that wash-out . He didn ' t know that the rain had been under- mining those ties for a week, but he never thought of danger, having wrapped himself in God ' s mercy. Anyway, he came swinging along, with the street door shut and the inner door open. On the step was a man preparing to alight. Then, as the car struck the wash-out where the rails sagged, it lurched and Steve had need of God ' s mercy for fair. That is, God ' s mercy and Mike Flynn. [ 21 ]

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Jffltfee Urtoopg to Conquer ICHAEL Flynn was Irish; anyone could tell that. While twisting his arduous way through life, Mike also twisted his adopted tongue. When anyone at the barns heard him say, early like in the morning, How are ye the marnin ' ? they would laugh and say, There ' s the wild Irishman now, and then later, Sure, Mike, I ' m fine-like this morning. Steve Casey was Irish, and Mike knew Steve in the Old Country. That ' s why they got a job on the same road gang and later on the same street car line. Steve was breaking in behind the controller at the same time that Mike was bossing his first crew. Whenever Steve happened to pass Mike, and see him first, he would shake his fist, and whenever Mike saw Steve coming he ' d wave insulting-like with his fingers. For all that, they were good friends as befitted two from the same sod. One morning Michael Flynn arrived at his work — a wash- out — a little ahead of time (an unusual occurrence). Mike slowly laid down his pick and shovel and took out his pipe to have a smoke. He stood still — a favorite pastime of his — and admired the scenery, wondering every now and then where the Polacks were. Mike stood quite a while listening to the birdies singing and admiring the wonderful mansion across the fields. It was the summer home of Sandys, the money-master of whom Mickey had heard it said that, with other men, he hunted bears in the market. Mike admired the place very much ; in fact, when he had first come over he had hired Tim Carroll ' s boy to write back, describing the wonderful mansion and its still more won- derful master to brother Denny across the water. And the message Denny sent back ! Mike still remembered it. Remem- ber ? Would he ever forget it ? It was as sage and as won- derful as the words of O ' Connell. It ran thus : Deer Michael i got your letter this morning iam glad to her your saf. Remember wat i tolld you, Michael, i am glad to her your near this Sandys for i red in the papers that he is a grat man, a fine man. Make this man your trend, Mikey i see by the papers he is the gratest man in America. Stick to this man and be a gud boy that your mother and i will be prowd of. Ex cuse this writing Mikey because Matthew Hardigan (me) is doing it for me. Remember what i tolld you. Denny. Yes, that was sage and wonderful and Mikey tried to follow its advice, yet he almost failed in his first test. [ 20]

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When Mikey saw the car make as if to jump the track he breathed a short prayer and promptly jammed his shovel under the wheel to keep the car on. The wheels spit fire but clung to the rail, with Mikey running along and shoving the shovel under at critical moments. Men inside shouted and the one outside screamed. The wires sang hot overhead. Steve dropped on to the step to go back and pull off the trolley. Mikey jumped at each effort. The veins stood out like whipcords on his brow, and his breath came in quick, heaving gasps. Are ye c-c-coomin ' down noow, Steve Ca-a-sey ? Steve, are ye — The grit flew into his mouth and choked him, and the elec- tricity sparking from the wheels blinded him. At each step every muscle in his body throbbed. And the man was holding Steve Casey on the step in a terrified embrace. Mike was dead tired, numb, blue in the face. Are ye c-coomin ' down noow, Steve ? Look out ! Steve ! Look out ! The spread rail, the leaning pole, both spelled death to the men on the step. It would crush them to an insensible mass when the car jumped — and they realized it. And so did God — and Mikey Flynn. An d He nerved Micky. To thrust in the shovel and keep the car on meant a broken arm, or a broken leg, or a broken life. And Mikey was as ready as any other man could be to do the right, as brother Denny gave him to see the right. He distinctly realized that as he thrust it. Then he realized no more. Mike awoke to the sound of soothing words and rough ca- resses, and broken shouts, and to the feel of blood that matted his hair, and stained his face, and covered his body. His head was in a professional man ' s lap and Steve Casey was saying ex- ultantly, Sure, an ' he says as you ' ll live, Mikey. A mob was raging around one end of the car which was crash up against the pole with its motors buried in mud. Mike could hear the shouting of honest Irish words, and Tim C arroll and Jim Casey came around one end leading a man. When they came nearer, Mike almost fainted. It was Sandys. Jim Casey, who knew the whole story, was loath to bring him at all, but finally let him come to a point near Mike from where he yelled something about life, hero, reward, money, grateful. ' Is that all ? asked Jim grimly, when he had finished. Sandys mumbled something about shaking something. It was a great moment for Mikey Flynn. Raising his head he said weak-like, James, who is this fellow ? 1 hen he shook hands, which certainly proves that he was Irish. — 9 5- [22]