At all events the strike question was settled in that week below,
and Johnny McLean held the ringleaders now in the hollow of his
hand. Terence O'Hara opened his eyes and delivered a dictum two
hours after he was carried home. "Tell thim byes," he growled
in weak jerks, "that if any wan of thim says shtrike till that
McLean child drops the hat, they'll fight--O'Hara."
Day after day, while the country was in an uproar of enthusiasm,
Johnny lay unconscious, breathing, and doing no more. And large
engineering affairs were allowed to go and rack and ruin while
Henry McLean watched his son.
On a hot morning such as comes in May, a veteran fly of the year
before buzzed about the dim window of the sick-room and banged
against the half-closed shutters. Half-conscious of the sound
the boy's father read near it, when another sound made his pulse
jump.
"Chase him out," came from the bed in a weak, cheerful voice.
"Don't want any more things shut up for a spell."
An hour later the older man stood over the boy. "Do you know
your next job, Johnny?" he said. "You've got to get well in
three weeks. Your triennial in New Haven is then."
"Holy--mackerel!" exploded the feeble tones. "All right, Henry,
I'll do it.
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