Arizona republican., 1891-06-06
TIMMY'S RALLY.

No more would his 9-year-old war whoop resound around the corner. No more would the lake front know Tmmy. his bare feet, and his stone bruises Never again would he occupy the pitch CTS box and captain the "Red Hots, de champeens nv all de 9-year-olds on de wes'-side"-a nine which, through Capt. Timmy's masterly inshoots, had attained proud pre-eminence. Never again would Timmy refresh his jaded spirits by throwing rocks at the Italian on the cor. ner, who had incurred his enmity by once refusing him banana.
 Timmy was as sturdy youngster as ever the west side turned out; he was as manly and self reliant as the average Chicago 9-year-old. He was the cock of the walk among all his companions-th best swimmer, the best fighter and the best pitcher in the ward. The neighbor- hood was lonesome without Tmmy. People could not imagine "what was on the boy" once so hearty and vigorous, to keep to his bed.
 his couch as flat and pallid as pancake, in the front room away up in Sylvester Mulligan's ten story flat building. The neighbors were coming in droves to cheer up the ailing youngster.
 You're not goan to lave me, yer poor ould mither, are ye, Timmy ashore?" walled his mother, rocking from side to side in her frenzy of grief, like a ship in a storm, her voice choked with grief, her eyes drowned in tears.
 "Ye were allus a dutiful child to me, Timmy alanna, and ye wud not be afther lavin' yer poor old mither to fight the wurld alone, now wud ye? You're the only boy have left, Timmy, and yell not lave me now afther raisin' ye as long as have. Sphake to him, Father Mur- phy; phase do, yer rivirince-he'll moind you. He wuz allus good hearted boy, though trihe wild. Rayson wid him, father. The fayver has rached his brain, and he turns his face to the wall from me. He won't sphake to me. Oh, it's heart scalded l am!"
 What's this I hear, Timmy, about your talking of dying?" cheerfully sung out the good Father Murphy, approach ing the bedside of the little sufferer and taking the boys wasted hand in his own. "Why, you're worth dozen dead men yet. l could psver spare you in the world. Who o'uld put in your place As- monitor in sh~ school? Who else could get to run my errands and to bring me my Evening News, eh? Why, Timmy, my boy, you are indispensable to the parish you're little pillar of the church-all by yourself. You're only pretending to be sick-you who were al- ways so strong and hearty, with the rosi- est cheeks and the brightest eye of all the lads for squares around. Brace up, and leave all thoughts of dying to old folk like your mother and myself. Do you hear, Tim?
 Tim did hear, holding his head fever ishly upon his clammy pillow. His eyes burned with an unnatural fire. They had the appealing glance of wounded deer; it would melt your heart but to look at them.
 The little invalid tossed uneasily upon the bed; his curling hair, damp with precipitation and pain, strayed uneasily OCT the pillow; his thin hands beat the coverlid with the petulance of sturdy youngster unused to such close confine- ment Yet he spoke not a word.
 Haven't you a word for your old teacher, Tim, my boy" asked Father Murphy, softly.
 "Where's Corkey O'Neill" yelled out Timmy suddenly, needless of the worthy priests entreaty. "I wanter see Corkeyi bring i'm up ere immejiate."
 Corkey was instantly produced. shuf- fling shamefacedly across the room to the bedside of his stricken comrade. Tim's brow was knitted in meditation. His fingers played tattoo on the blanket He had a load on his mind he wanted to dump. Turning restlessly, he unburdened himself thus:
 'I done ye up two weeks ter day, Corkey."
 Corkey admitted the "doing up."
 But fout ye fair, Corkey; l didn't use brass knucklesT
 Corkey was forced to declare that brass knuckles took no active part in the youthful encounter.
 "Ye sed wuz a snide, Corkey, didn't yey'
 It appeared that Corkey had said so.
 "I jumped ye pretty hard. l Iblacked both O yer eyes-or wuz it ony one?'
 It was tony one." for Corkey still bore the echo of it on his tinted left optic.
 Well, wot I wanter say, Corkey, is I'm sorry l bunged you up so bad. ] don't believe l could whip you the way am here, but eff you want satisfaction ye can take it out O me now-h you bear enny hard feelings"
 "I wouldn't hit dying kid, not fer dc hull west side," cried out Corkey, sob ping as if his heart would break; Eye only guy me wot deserved, Timmy. l had no right roastin' you de way did"
 "Who dug the Red Hots play Sun day" ,
 "We wuz goan to play de Hard Times, Timmy. but now dat you're sick an can't pitch we've declared the match off; we'd git skunked.'
 "wot did ye do dat for?" savagely ex- claimed Timmy. "rve good mind to black yer other eye for ye."
 "Well, we all made up we wudn't play till ye got well, Tim; it's no use going out on de dimund unless you're pitchin'."
 Mir. Mullgan appeared to see matters in the proper light
 Well, I guess you're about right, Corkey," he was moved to admit. "l guess I'll hay ter get we'll. wanter skpnk dat crowd of Hard Times wid me