In Old Chicago

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Isn't it time to stop this travelin', | for it dark and the child shiverin'?

We will not. And us not two hours, | or maybe three, from Chicago itself?

"Ha, ha," says I.

Get along with ya, ya lazy devils. | I'll be layin' me whip on your backs.

Chicago will not be movin'...

and us living there for the rest | of our days, God willin'.

I'll not be held back | by your tongue.

A fine city waiting there | just over the rim of the land.

"I'll rest there tonight," | I said to myself.

And so I will. | 'Tis a mighty city will be built here.

The hub. Yes, the hub | of the country...

fillin' all | this prairie land...

and you boys | living to see it.

Huh, indeed.

Come on. | Get along with ya.

Look, Pa. | It's a train.

Come on, Pa. | Let's race her.

By the twinklin' stars | of heaven, I will.

- Come on, boys. | - You'll do no such.

Go on, Pa! | You can lick it!

We're licking it! | We're licking it!

Whoa! Whoa there!

Hold on, boys! | Whoa, boy. Whoa there.

Whoa!

Whoa, boy.

Holy Mary, Mother of God.

- Pat. Pat! | - Pa.

Pat. Jack, | fix the water, quick.

Dion, my petticoat, | tear it.

- Ma. | - Shh!

Dion, take off your coat | and put it under his head.

- Is he hurt bad? | - How should I be knowin'?

Pour a little water over his head.

That's enough. | Dion, get the whiskey.

Never mind me. | Are the rest unharmed?

- Not a scratch. | - Heaven be praised for that.

'Twas me own fault | and no other.

Ain't it the devil's | own doin', though...

to be draggin' me down and then | bumping the life out of me?

Just when the smell | of Chicago's in me nose.

Jack.

Dion.

Bob.

Come closer here, | the three of ya...

and mind what | I have to say.

'Tis a grand new place, | this Chicago.

And them that grow with it | will be rich and strong...

like I was always | minded to be.

'Tis a boom, | and you'll boom with it.

Someday you'll be | fine, big men...

a credit to me name...

and everybody speakin' | with respect of the O'Learys...

and how they grew up with the city | and put their mark on it.

You're wastin' yourself, Patrick. | You with your fine talk.

It's me last breath I'm usin', | and I'll have me say.

- Help me put him in the wagon. We've got to find a doctor. | - No.

No, it's no use.

Just bury me here...

and let Chicago | come to me...

that couldn't come to it.

Molly...

Patrick.

- Patrick. | - Ma!

Holy Mary, Mother of God, | help my Pat rest in peace...

him that was so restless on Earth, | for he was a good man...

for all his fine | ambitions.

And if there ever was to be food | to be got or shelter...

or you wanted someone to laugh with | or have a bit of a good time...

you didn't have to look | any further than Patrick O'Leary.

But I need not | be tellin' you all this...

who know it better | than I do.

Amen.

Get the horses ready, | boys.

Good-bye, Pat.

Someday, I'll be | sendin' the priest...

to speak | the proper words.

Ma, I'll | take care of ya.

I'll do what he said. | You know, about Chicago and...

Sure, Ma, we'll | take care of ya.

I'm gonna make a lot of money | and get ya things and...

Hush it, | the both of you.

Get in the wagon.

Giddap.

Ho!

Ma, we've gotta find | someplace to stay.

- We can't keep on living in a wagon. | - Time enough for that.

- It's a job I'm looking for first. | - Look!

There's a theater.

Maybe I could get | to be an actor.

You an actor, and your father | not cold in his grave.

- But we've gotta do something. | - It's school you'll be going to, the three of ya.

School, at my age.

Whoa.

Look. Right under | my very eyes.

Wait here.

I won't be a minute away.

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