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Updated: June 17, 2025
His name was Jerry. It's not possible, is't, that the J. on your handkerchief stands for Jerry, too?" For the first time since he had left Woodville J.M. disclosed the grotesque secret of his initials. In the flaccid indifference of convalescence it flowed from him painlessly. "My name is Jeroboam Mordecai." "Exactly to a hair like Uncle Jerry's!" cried Mrs. McCartey, overjoyed by the coincidence.
The mention of the children awoke to life J.M.'s old punctilious habits. He tried to sit up. "But you have so little space for all your family you should not have taken me in; where can the children sleep?" Mrs. McCartey pushed him back on the pillow with an affectionate firmness born of "the bringin' up of sivin." "Now lay still, Uncle Jerry, and kape yourself cool."
McCartey said to him that evening, with an innocent misconception of the situation, "Sure an' mustn't it sound fine to you, that name, when you've no kith of your own." J.M. realized that that speech broke down the last bridge of retreat into his forsaken dignity.
However, when he stirred, it was not his mother but a rosy-faced Irish woman who stopped her sewing and asked him in a thick, sweet brogue if he needed anything. As he stared at her, recollecting but dimly having seen her glossy brown hair and fair, matronly face before, she exclaimed: "Ah, I'm Bridget McCartey, you know, an' you were hurted by the lads throwin' a baseball into your ribs.
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