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Back A Man of Honor
Chapters (71)
  1. Copyright Notice
  2. Dedication
  3. Part One
  4. One
  5. Two
  6. Three
  7. Four
  8. Five
  9. Six
  10. Seven
  11. Eight
  12. Nine
  13. Ten
  14. Eleven
  15. Part Two
  16. Twelve
  17. Thirteen
  18. Fourteen
  19. Fifteen
  20. Sixteen
  21. Seventeen
  22. Eighteen
  23. Nineteen
  24. Twenty
  25. Twenty-One
  26. Twenty-Two
  27. Twenty-Three
  28. Twenty-Four
  29. Twenty-Five
  30. Twenty-Six
  31. Twenty-Seven
  32. Twenty-Eight
  33. Twenty-Nine
  34. Thirty
  35. Thirty-One
  36. Thirty-Two
  37. Part Three
  38. Thirty-Three
  39. Thirty-Four
  40. Thirty-Five
  41. Thirty-Six
  42. Thirty-Seven
  43. Thirty-Eight
  44. Thirty-Nine
  45. Forty
  46. Forty-One
  47. Forty-Two
  48. Forty-Three
  49. Forty-Four
  50. Part Four
  51. Forty-Five
  52. Forty-Six
  53. Forty-Seven
  54. Forty-Eight
  55. Forty-Nine
  56. Fifty
  57. Fifty-One
  58. Fifty-Two
  59. Fifty-Three
  60. Part Five
  61. Fifty-Four
  62. Fifty-Five
  63. Fifty-Six
  64. Fifty-Seven
  65. Fifty-Eight
  66. Fifty-Nine
  67. Sixty
  68. Sixty-One
  69. Books by Barbara Taylor Bradford
  70. About the Author
  71. Newsletter Sign-up

Blackie laughed and exclaimed, “I’ll be the best-dressed lad in Leeds, won’t I?”

Mrs. O’Malley laughed with him, and then glanced at the small clock on the mantelpiece as it struck twelve. “Goodness me, it’s already dinnertime. I hope ye’ll stay and have a bite with me, Blackie; sure and I would enjoy that.”

“If yer sure that’s all right,” he said quietly, knowing it was. They often had dinner together, and she always invited him if she ran into him. With his cousins at the big house all day, she knew he’d go hungry otherwise.

“’Tis indeed,” she answered, the Irish lilt in her voice apparent. “It’s always been awright with me.… Ye see I love ye like my own lad, Shane Patrick Desmond O’Neill, known as Blackie to the whole wide world.”

Three

The kitchen was warm, cozy and quiet. Blackie sat back in Mrs. O’Malley’s chair, relaxed, even a little sleepy, as he gazed into the roaring fire.

The flames flaring and rising up the chimney were vividly pink, gold and deep red. And in them he saw his dreams reflected: this trip to Queenstown, the sea crossing to Liverpool and the long journey on the train to Leeds.

That city flickered within the flames, many images. A great metropolis it was: his uncle Pat had explained that in his last letter. He had told him the streets were paved with gold, there were jobs aplenty, and work for everyone who wanted to make money. The right place for him.

MONEY. That word loomed large in his mind. Money made you safe, less vulnerable to the grasping world surrounding you, especially if you were a young boy like he was. No, he now thought, I’m not a young boy. I am thirteen, and thanks to my height and strong build, I look much older—sixteen or so at least.

This happened to be the truth. Unlike his brother, Niall, and sister, Bronagh, he was a grand specimen of a young man and extremely good-looking. His siblings had been so much slighter and shorter in height. They had teased him, called him the giant and just laughed.

The luck of the draw, he thought, sure and it is. Blackie was well aware he could win in a brawl. He’d knock a man out with one punch. He’d tackle a small group if they came after him intent on trouble. Once his uncle Pat had come to visit from England, and had said he ought to step into the ring and become a boxer, and that he’d become a champion.