'em," he said.

"Sure, then, you've left out one thing. With that receipt, Pat, you'd
need a hammer to crack 'em with after they was baked. No, no, Pat, you
pick 'em over good and put 'em a-soak over night. In the mornin' you
pick 'em over again, and wash 'em good and bile 'em awhile, and pour off
the water, and bile 'em again in fresh water with jist enough salt in
it, and then you put 'em in the oven and bake 'em along with a piece of
pork that's been a-bilin' in another kittle all the toime."

Pat looked a trifle astonished, but all he said was, "_Baked beans_
is a queer name for 'em, ain't it?"

Mrs. O'Callaghan smiled. "That's the short of it, Pat, jist the short of
it. The names of things don't tell half there is to 'em sometoimes. And
now for the dinner. It's belavin' I am you can cook it with me standin'
by to help you out when you get into trouble."

Pat tied on a clean apron, washed his hands and set to work.

"That's it! That's it!" encouraged Mrs. O'Callaghan, from time to time,
as the cooking progressed. "And I'll jist be tellin' you, Pat, you're
not so green as some girls I've seen. I'd rather have a handy b'y as an
unhandy girl any day."

A little later she stood in the shanty door. "Come, Moike!" she called.
"Bring the little b'ys in to dinner. Pat's a-dishin' it a'ready."

Mike had been detailed by his prudent mother as a guard to prevent his
small brothers from making too intimate acquaintance with freight cars