ONLY AN IRISH BOY
          Or, Andy Burke's Fortunes
                      by
               Horatio Alger, Jr.

 Author of "Paul the Peddler," "Phil the Fiddler,"
      "Strive and Succeed," "Slow and Sure,"
            "Try and Trust," etc.




CONTENTS

  Chapter
        I.  ANDY BURKE
       II.  A SKIRMISH
      III.  ANDY AND HIS MOTHER
       IV.  MRS. PRESTON
        V.  A PROFITABLE JOB
       VI.  THE TWO OLD MAIDS
      VII.  ANDY OBTAINS A PLACE
     VIII.  THE MIDNIGHT ALARM
       IX.  WHAT FOLLOWED
        X.  ANDY'S DEBUT AT SCHOOL
       XI.  A GAME OF BALL
      XII.  A LITTLE DIFFICULTY
     XIII.  GODFREY'S REBELLION
      XIV.  MR. STONE IS CALLED TO ACCOUNT
       XV.  MRS. PRESTON'S DISCOMFITURE
      XVI.  THE CHRISTMAS PRESENT
     XVII.  INTRODUCES AN ADVENTURER
    XVIII.  RIDING WITH A HIGHWAYMAN
      XIX.  BAFFLED A ROBBER
       XX.  HOW THE NEWS WAS RECEIVED
      XXI.  A MODEL WIFE
     XXII.  COLONEL PRESTON'S RECOVERY
    XXIII.  MRS. BURKE HAS GOOD FORTUNE
     XXIV.  ANDY'S JOURNEY
      XXV.  THE MERCHANT FROM PORTLAND
     XXVI.  SPINNING THE WEB
    XXVII.  THE DROP GAME
   XXVIII.  THE GUEST OF TWO HOTELS
     XXIX.  A STARTLING EVENT
      XXX.  COLONEL PRESTON'S WILL
     XXXI.  MRS. PRESTON'S INTENTIONS
    XXXII.  MRS. PRESTON'S REVENGE
   XXXIII.  ANDY LOSES HIS PLACE
    XXXIV.  THE WILL AT LAST
     XXXV.  MRS. PRESTON IS UNPLEASANTLY SURPRISED
    XXXVI.  ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL





ONLY AN IRISH BOY




CHAPTER I
ANDY BURKE


"John, saddle my horse, and bring him around to the door."

The speaker was a boy of fifteen, handsomely dressed, and, to judge
from his air and tone, a person of considerable consequence, in his
own opinion, at least. The person addressed was employed in the stable
of his father, Colonel Anthony Preston, and so inferior in social
condition that Master Godfrey always addressed him in imperious tones.

John looked up and answered, respectfully:

"Master Godfrey, your horse is sick of the disease, and your father
left orders that he wasn't to go out on no account."

"It's my horse," said Godfrey; "I intend to take him out."

"Maybe it's yours, but your father paid for him."

"None of your impudence, John," answered Godfrey, angrily. "Am I
master, or are you, I should like to know!"

"Neither, I'm thinking," said John, with a twinkle in his eye. "It's
your father that's the master."

"I'm master of the horse, anyway, so saddle him at once."

"The colonel would blame me," objected John.

"If you don't, I'll report you and get you dismissed."

"I'll take the risk, Master Godfrey," said the servant,
good-humoredly. "The colonel won't be so unreasonable as to send me
away for obeying his own orders."

Here John was right, and Godfrey knew it, and this vexed him the more.
He had an inordinate opinion of himself and his own consequence, and
felt humiliated at being disobeyed by a servant, without being able to
punish him for his audacity. This feeling was increased by the
presence of a third party, who was standing just outside the fence.

As this third party is our hero, I must take a separate paragraph to
describe him. He was about the age of Godfrey, possibly a little
shorter and stouter. He had a freckled face, full of good humor, but
at the same time resolute and determined. He appeared to be one who
had a will of his own, but not inclined to interfere with others,
though ready to stand up for his own rights. In dress he compared very
unfavorably with the young aristocrat, who was biting his lips with
vexation. In fact, though he is my hero, his dress was far from
heroic. He had no vest, and his coat was ragged, as well as his pants.
He had on a pair of shoes two or three times too large for him. They
had not been made to order, but had been given him by a gentleman of
nearly double his size, and fitted him too much. He wore a straw hat,
for it was summer, but the brim was semi-detached, and a part of his
brown hair found its way through it.

Now Godfrey was just in the mood for picking a quarrel with somebody,
and as there was no excuse for quarreling any further with John, he
was rather glad to pitch into the young stranger.

"Who are you?" he demanded, in his usual imperious tone, and with a
contraction of the brow.

"Only an Irish boy!" answered the other, with a droll look and a
slight brogue.

"Then what business have you leaning against my fence?" again demanded
Godfrey, imperiously.

"Shure, I didn't know it was your fence."

"Then you know now. Quit leaning against it."

"Why should I, now? I don't hurt it, do I?"

"No matter--I told you to go away. We don't want any beggars here."

"Shure, I don't see any," said the other boy, demurely.

"What are you but a beggar?"

"Shure, I'm a gintleman of indepindent fortune."

"You look like it," said Godfrey, disdainfully. "Where do you keep
it?"

"Here!" said the Irish boy, tapping a bundle which he carried over his
shoulder, wrapped in a red cotton handkerchief, with a stick thrust
through beneath the knot.

"What's your name?"

"Andy Burke. What's yours?"

"I don't feel under any obligations to answer your questions," said
Godfrey, haughtily.

"Don't you? Then what made you ask me?"

"That's different. You are only an Irish boy."

"And who are you?"

"I am the only son of Colonel Anthony Preston," returned Godfrey,
impressively.

"Are you, now? I thought you was a royal duke, or maybe Queen
Victoria's oldest boy."

"Fellow, you are becoming impertinent."

"Faith, I didn't mean it. You look so proud and gintale that it's jist
a mistake I made."

"You knew that we had no dukes in America," said Godfrey,
suspiciously.

"If we had, now, you'd be one of them," said Andy.

"Why? What makes you say so?"

"You're jist the picture of the Earl of Barleycorn's ildest son that I
saw before I left Ireland."

Godfrey possessed so large a share of ridiculous pride that he felt
pleased with the compliment, though he was not clear about its
sincerity.

"Where do you live?" he asked, with a slight lowering of his tone.

"Where do I live? Shure, I don't live anywhere now, but I'm going to
live in the village. My mother came here a month ago."

"Why didn't you come with her?"

"I was workin' with a farmer, but the work gave out and I came home.
Maybe I'll find work here."

"I think I know where your mother lives," said John, who had heard the
conversation. "She lives up the road a mile or so, in a little house
with two rooms. It's where old Jake Barlow used to live."

"Thank you, sir. I guess I'll be goin', then, as my mother'll be
expectin' me. Do you know if she's well?" and a look of anxiety came
over the boy's honest, good-natured face.

The question was addressed to John, but of this Godfrey was not quite
sure. He thought the inquiry was made of him, and his pride was
touched.

"What should I know of your mother, you beggar?" he said, with a
sneer. "I don't associate with such low people."

"Do you mane my mother?" said Andy, quickly, and he, too, looked angry
and threatening.

"Yes, I do. What are you going to do about it?" demanded Godfrey.

"You'd better take it back," said Andy, his good-humored face now dark
with passion.

"Do you think I am afraid of such a beggar as you?" sneered Godfrey.
"You appear to forget that you are speaking to a gentleman."

"Shure, I didn't know it," returned Andy, hotly. "You're no gentleman
if you insult my mother, and if you'll come out here for a minute I'll
give you a bating."

"John," said Godfrey, angrily, "will you drive that beggar away?"

Now, John's sympathies were rather with Andy than with his young
master. He had no great admiration for Godfrey, having witnessed
during the year he had been in his father's employ too much of the
boy's arrogance and selfishness to feel much attachment for him. Had
he taken any part in the present quarrel, he would have preferred
espousing the cause of the Irish boy; but that would not have been
polite, and he therefore determined to preserve his neutrality.

"That ain't my business, Master Godfrey," he said. "You must fight
your own battles."

"Go away from here," said Godfrey, imperiously advancing toward that
part of the fence against which Andy Burke was leaning.

"Will you take back what you said agin' my mother?"

"No, I won't."

"Then you're a blackguard, if you are a rich man's son."

The blood rushed to Godfrey's face on the instant. This was a palpable
insult. What! he, a rich man's son, the only son and heir of Colonel
Anthony Preston, with his broad acres and ample bank account--he to be
called a blackguard by a low Irish boy. His passion got the better of
him, and he ran through the gate, his eyes flashing fire, bent on
exterminating his impudent adversary.




CHAPTER II
A SKIRMISH


Andy Burke was not the boy to run away from an opponent of his own
size and age. Neither did he propose to submit quietly to the
thrashing which Godfrey designed to give him. He dropped his stick and
bundle, and squared off scientifically at his aristocratic foe.

Godfrey paused an instant before him.

"I'm going to give you a thrashing," he said; "the worst thrashing you
ever had."

"Are you, now?" asked Andy, undismayed. "Come on, thin; I'm ready for
you."

"You're an impudent young ruffian."

"So are you."

Godfrey's aristocratic blood boiled at this retort, and he struck out
at Andy, but the latter knew what was coming, and, swift as a flash,
warded it off, and fetched Godfrey a blow full upon his nose, which
started the blood. Now, the pain and the sight of the blood combined
filled him with added fury, and he attempted to seize Andy around the
waist and throw him. But here again he was foiled. The young Irish boy
evaded his grasp, and, seizing him in turn, by an adroit movement of
the foot, tripped him up. Godfrey fell heavily on his back.

Andy withdrew a little, and did not offer to hold him down, as Godfrey
would have been sure to do under similar circumstances. "Have you got
enough?" he asked.

"That wasn't fair," exclaimed Godfrey, jumping up hastily, deeply
mortified because he had been worsted in the presence of John, who,
sooth to say, rather enjoyed his young master's overthrow.

He rushed impetuously at Andy, but he was blinded by his own
impetuosity, and his adversary, who kept cool and self-possessed, had,
of course, the advantage. So the engagement terminated as
before--Godfrey was stretched once more on the sidewalk. He was about
to renew the assault, however, when there was an interruption. This
interruption came in the form of Colonel Preston himself, who was
returning from a business meeting of citizens interested in
establishing a savings bank in the village.

"What's all this, Godfrey?" he called out, in a commanding tone.

Godfrey knew that when his father spoke he must obey, and he therefore
desisted from the contemplated attack. He looked up at his father and
said, sulkily:

"I was punishing this Irish boy for his impertinence."

John grinned a little at this way of putting it, and his father said:

"It looked very much as if he were punishing you."

"I didn't get fair hold," said Godfrey, sulkily.

"So he was impertinent, was he? What did he say?"

"He said I was no gentleman."

Andy Burke listened attentively to what was said, but didn't attempt
to justify himself as yet.

"I have sometimes had suspicions of that myself," said his father,
quietly.

Though Godfrey was an only son, his father was sensible enough to be
fully aware of his faults. If he was indulged, it was his mother, not
his father, that was in fault. Colonel Preston was a fair and just
man, and had sensible views about home discipline; but he was
overruled by his wife, whose character may be judged from the fact
that her son closely resembled her. She was vain, haughty, and proud
of putting on airs. She considered herself quite the finest lady in
the village, but condescended to associate with the wives of the
minister, the doctor, and a few of the richer inhabitants, but even
with them she took care to show that she regarded herself superior to
them all. She was, therefore, unpopular, as was her son among his
companions. However, these two stood by each other, and Mrs. Preston
was sure to defend Godfrey in all he did, and complained because his
father did not do the same.

"I didn't think you'd turn against me, and let a low boy insult me,"
complained Godfrey.

"Why do you call him low?"

"Because he's only an Irish boy."

"Some of our most distinguished men have been Irish boys or of Irish
descent. I don't think you have proved your point."

"He's a beggar."

"I'm not a beggar," exclaimed Andy, speaking for the first time. "I
never begged a penny in all my life."

"Look at his rags," said Godfrey, scornfully.

"You would be in rags, too, if you had to buy your own clothes. I
think I should respect you very much more under the circumstances,"
returned his father.

"The colonel's a-givin' it to him," thought John, with a grin.
"'Twon't do the young master any harm."

"What is your name?" inquired Colonel Preston, turning now to our
hero, as his son seemed to have no more to say.

"Andy Burke."

"Do you live here?"

"I've just come to town, sir. My mother lives here."

"Where does she live?"

"I don't know, sir, just. He knows," pointing out John.

"I calcerlate his mother lives in old Jake Barlow's house," said John.

"Oh, the Widow Burke. Yes, I know. I believe Mrs. Preston employs her
sometimes. Well, Andy, if that's your name, how is it that I catch you
fighting with my son? That is not very creditable, unless you have
good cause."

"He called my mother a low woman," said Andy, "and then he run up and
hit me."

"Did you do that, Godfrey?"

"He was putting on too many airs. He talked as if he was my equal."

"He appears to be more than your equal in strength," said his father.
"Well, was that all?"

"It was about all."

"Then I think he did perfectly right, and I hope you'll profit by the
lesson you have received."

"He is a gentleman," thought Andy. "He ain't hard on a boy because
he's poor."

Colonel Preston went into the house, but Godfrey lingered behind a
moment. He wanted to have a parting shot at his adversary. He could
fight with words, if not with blows.

"Look here!" he said, imperiously; "don't let me see you round here
again."

"Why not?"

"I don't want to see you."

"Then you can look the other way," said Andy, independently.

"This is my house."

"I thought it was your father's."

"That's the same thing. You'd better stay at home with your mother."

"Thank you," said Andy; "you're very kind. May I come along the road
sometimes?"

"If you do, walk on the other side."

Andy laughed. He was no longer provoked, but amused.

"Then, by the same token, you'd better not come by my mother's house,"
he said, good-humoredly.

"I don't want to come near your miserable shanty," said Godfrey,
disdainfully.

"You may come, if you keep on the other side of the road," said Andy,
slyly.

Godfrey was getting disgusted; for in the war of words, as well as of
blows, his ragged opponent seemed to be getting the better of him. He
turned on his heel and entered the house. He was sure of one who would
sympathize with him in his dislike and contempt for Andy--this was, of
course, his mother. Besides, he had another idea. He knew that Mrs.
Burke had been employed by his mother, occasionally, to assist in the
house. It occurred to him that it would be a fine piece of revenge to
induce her to dispense hereafter with the poor woman's services. Bent
on accomplishing this creditable retaliation, he left his young
opponent master of the field.

"I must be goin'," said Andy, as he picked up his bundle and suspended
it from his stick. "Will I find the house where my mother lives,
easy?"

The question was, of course, addressed to John, who had just turned to
go to the stable.

"You can't miss it," answered John. "It's a mile up the road, stands a
little way back. There's a few hills of potatoes in the front yard.
How long since you saw your mother?"

"It's three months."

"Does she know you are coming to-day?"

"No. I would have wrote to her, but my fingers isn't very ready with
the pen."

"Nor mine either," said John. "I'd rather take a licking any time than
write a letter. Come round and see us some time."

"The boy'll lick me," said Andy, laughing.

"I guess you can manage him."

Andy smiled, for it was his own conviction, also. With his bundle on
his shoulder he trudged on, light of heart, for he was about to see
his mother and sister, both of whom he warmly loved.




CHAPTER III
ANDY AND HIS MOTHER


The house in which the Widow Burke and her daughter lived was a very
humble one. It had not been painted for many years, and the original
coat had worn off, leaving it dark and time-stained. But when Mrs.
Burke came to town, a short time before, it was the only dwelling she
could hire that was held at a rent within her means. So she and Mary,
who was now eleven years old, had moved in their scanty furniture and
made it look as much like a home as possible.

Mrs. Burke had not always been as poor as now. She was the daughter of
an Irish tradesman, and had received quite a good education. In due
time she married a small farmer, who was considered to be in fair
circumstances, but there came a bad year, and misfortunes of various
kinds came together. The last and heaviest of all was fever, which
prostrated her husband on a bed of sickness. Though his wife watched
over him night and day with all the devotion of love, it was all of no
avail. He died, and she found herself left with about a hundred
pounds--after his debts were paid. She was advised to go to America
with her two children, and did so. That was five years before. They
had lived in various places--but the little sum she had left over,
after the passage of the three was paid, had long since melted away,
and she was forced to get a living as she could.

Since she had come to Crampton, leaving Andy at work for a farmer in
the place where they had last lived, she had obtained what sewing she
could from the families in the village, and had besides obtained a
chance to help about the ironing at Colonel Preston's. Washing was too
hard for her, for her strength was not great.

At the time of our introduction she was engaged in making a shirt, one
of half a dozen which she had engaged to make for Dr. Plympton, the
village doctor. She had no idea that Andy was so near, having heard
nothing of his having left his place, but it was of him she was
speaking.

"I wish I could see Andy," she sighed, looking up from her work.

"So do I, mother."

"The sight of him would do my eyes good, he's such a lively lad, Andy
is--always in good spirits."

"Shure, he's got a good heart, mother dear. It wouldn't be so lonely
like if he was here."

"I would send for him if there was anything to do, Mary; but we are so
poor that we must all of us stay where we can get work."

"When do you go to Colonel Preston's, mother? Is it to-morrow?"

"Yes, my dear."

"I'm always lonely when you are away."

"Perhaps you would come with me, Mary, dear. Mrs. Preston wouldn't
object, I'm thinkin'."

"If Andy was at home I wouldn't feel so lonely."

While she was speaking Andy himself had crept under the window, and
heard her words. He was planning a surprise, but waited for the last
moment to announce himself. He waited to hear what reply his mother
would say.

"I think we'll see him soon, Mary, dear."

"What makes you say so, mother?"

"I don't know. I've got a feeling in my bones that we'll soon meet.
The blessed saints grant that it may be so."

"Your bones are right this time, mother," said a merry voice.

And Andy, popping up from his stooping position, showed himself at the
window.

There was a simultaneous scream from Mary and her mother.

"Is it you, Andy?" exclaimed Mary.

"It isn't nobody else," said Andy, rather ungrammatically.

"Come in, Andy, my darling--come in, and tell me if you are well,"
said his mother, dropping the shirt on which she was at work, and
rising to her feet.

"I'll be with you in a jiffy," said Andy.

And, with a light leap, he cleared the window sill, and stood in the
presence of his mother and sister, who vied with each other in hugging
the returned prodigal.

"You'll choke me, Sister Mary," said Andy, good-humoredly. "Maybe you
think I'm your beau."

"Don't speak to her of beaux, and she only eleven years old," said his
mother. "But you haven't told us why you came."

"Faith, mother, it was because the work gave out, and I thought I'd
pack my trunk and come and see you and Mary. That's all."

"We are glad to see you, Andy, dear, but," continued his mother,
taking a survey of her son's appearance for the first time, "you're
lookin' like a beggar, with your clothes all in rags."

Andy laughed.

"Faith, it's about so, mother. There was no one to mend 'em for me,
and I'm more used to the hoe than the needle."

"I will sew up some of the holes when you're gone to bed, Andy. Are
you sure you're well, lad?"

"Well, mother? Jist wait till you see me atin', mother. You'll think
I've got a healthy appetite."

"I never thought, Andy. The poor lad must be hungry. Mary, see what
there is in the closet."

"There's nothing but some bread, mother," said Mary.

Indeed bread and potatoes were the main living of the mother and
daughter, adopted because they were cheap. They seldom ventured on the
extravagance of meat, and that was one reason, doubtless, for Mrs.
Burke's want of strength and sometimes feeling faint and dizzy while
working at her needle.

"Is there no meat in the house, Mary?"

"Not a bit, mother."

"Then go and see if there's an egg outside."

The widow kept a few hens, having a henhouse in one corner of the back
yard. The eggs she usually sold, but Andy was at home now, and needed
something hearty, so they must be more extravagant than usual.

Mary went out, and quickly returned with a couple of eggs.

"Here they are, mother, two of them. The black hen was settin' on
them, but I drove her away, and you can hear her cackling. Shure, Andy
needs them more than she does."

"Will you have them boiled or fried, Andy?" asked his mother.

"Any way, mother. I'm hungry enough to ate 'em raw. It's hungry work
walkin' ten miles wid a bundle on your back, let alone the fightin'."

"Fighting!" exclaimed Mrs. Burke, pausing in drawing out the table.

"Fightin', Andy?" chimed in Mary, in chorus.

"Yes, mother," said Andy.

"And who did you fight with?" asked the widow, anxiously.

"With a boy that feels as big as a king; maybe bigger."

"What's his name?"

"I heard his father call him Godfrey."

"What, Godfrey Preston?" exclaimed Mrs. Burke in something like
consternation.

"Yes, that's the name. He lives in a big house a mile up the road."

"What made you fight with him, Andy?" inquired his mother, anxiously.

"He began it."

"What could he have against you? He didn't know you."

"He thought as I only was an Irish boy he could insult me, and call me
names, but I was too much for him."

"I hope you didn't hurt him?"

"I throwed him twice, mother, but then his father came up and that put
a stop to the fight."

"And what did his father say?"

"He took my part, mother, when he found out how it was, and scolded
his son. Shure, he's a gentleman."

"Yes, Colonel Preston is a gentleman."

"And that's where he isn't like his son, I'm thinkin'."

"No. Godfrey isn't like his father. It's his mother he favors."

"Faith, and I don't call it favoring," said Andy. Is the old lady as
ugly and big-feelin' as the son?"

"She's rather a hard woman, Andy. I go up to work there one day every
week."

"Do you, mother?" said Andy, not wholly pleased to hear that his
mother was employed by the mother of his young enemy.

"Yes, Andy."

"What is it you do?"

"I help about the ironing. To-morrow's my day for going there."

"I wish you could stay at home, and not go out to work, mother," said
Andy, soberly. "You don't look strong, mother, dear. I'm afraid you're
not well."

"Oh, yes, Andy, I am quite well. I shall be better, too, now that you
are at home. I missed you very much. It seemed lonely without you."

"I must find out some way to earn money, mother," said Andy. "I'm
young and strong, and I ought to support you."

"You can help me, Andy," said Mrs. Burke, cheerfully.

She took up the shirt and resumed her sewing.

"I'm afraid you're too steady at the work, mother," said Andy.

"I shall be ironing to-morrow. It's a change from sewing, Andy. Mary,
it's time to take off the eggs."

Andy was soon partaking of the frugal meal set before him. He enjoyed
it, simple as it was, and left not a particle of the egg or a crumb of
the bread.




CHAPTER IV
MRS. PRESTON


Whenever Godfrey Preston had any difficulty with his father, he always
went to his mother, and from her, right or wrong, he was sure to
obtain sympathy. So in the present instance, failing to receive from
his father that moral support to which he deemed himself entitled, on
entering the house he sought out his mother.

Mrs. Preston, who was rather a spare lady, with thin lips and a sharp,
hatchet-like face, was in her own room. She looked up as Godfrey
entered.

"Well, Godfrey, what's the matter?" she asked, seeing on her son's
face an unmistakable expression of discontent.

"Matter enough, mother. Father's always against me."

"I know it. He appears to forget that you are his son. What is it
now?"

"He came up just as I was thrashing a boy down in the yard."

"What boy?"

"Nobody you know, mother. It was only an Irish boy."

"What was your reason for punishing him?" asked Mrs. Preston, adopting
Godfrey's version of the affair.

"He was impudent to me. He was leaning against the fence, and I
ordered him away. He was a ragged boy, with a bundle on a stick. Of
course, when he wouldn't move, I went out and thrashed him."

"Was your father there?"

"He came up in the midst of it, and, instead of taking my part, he
took the part of the Irish boy."

"I don't see how Mr. Preston can be so unfair," said his wife. "It is
his duty to stand by his family."

"I felt ashamed to have him scold me before the impudent boy. Of
course, he enjoyed it, and I suppose he will think he can be impudent
to me again."

"No doubt. I will speak to your father about it. He really shouldn't
be so inconsiderate. But what is that stain on your coat, Godfrey? I
should think you had been down on your back on the ground."

"Oh," said Godfrey, rather embarrassed, "I happened to slip as I was
wrestling with the fellow, and fell on my back. However, I was up
again directly and gave it to him, I can tell you. If father hadn't
stopped me I'd have laid him out," he continued, in a swaggering tone.

It will be seen that Godfrey did not always confine himself to the
truth. Indeed, he found it rather hard at all times to admit either
that he had been in the wrong or had been worsted. Even if his mother
sometimes suspected that his accounts were a trifle distorted, she
forbore to question their accuracy. Mother and son had a sort of tacit
compact by which they stood by each other, and made common cause
against Colonel Preston.

"Don't you know the boy? Doesn't he live in the neighborhood?" asked
Mrs. Preston, after a pause.

"He's just come into the town, but I'll tell you who he is. He's the
son of that woman that comes to work for you once a week."

"Mrs. Burke?"

"Yes; he told me that his name was Andy Burke."

"He ought to know his place too well to be impudent to one in your
position."

"So I think."

"I shall speak to Mrs. Burke about her son's bad behavior."

"I wish you'd discharge her. That's a good way to punish the boy."

"I shouldn't object to doing that, Godfrey, but Mrs. Burke is a
capital hand at ironing shirts. Yours and your father's never looked
so nice as they have since she has been here."

Godfrey looked a little discontented. Being essentially mean, he
thought it would be an excellent plan to strike the son through the
mother.

"You might threaten her, mother, a little. Tell her to make her boy
behave himself, or you'll discharge her."

"I will certainly speak to her on the subject, Godfrey."

At the table Mrs. Preston introduced the subject of Godfrey's wrongs.

"I am surprised, Mr. Preston, that you took part against Godfrey when
he was rudely assaulted this morning."

"I thought Godfrey in the wrong, my dear. That was my reason."

"You generally appear to think your own son in the wrong. You are
ready to take part with any stranger against him," said Mrs. Preston,
in a complaining manner.

"I don't think you are quite right just there," said her husband,
good-humoredly. "I must say, however, that Godfrey generally is in the
wrong."

"You are very unjust to him."

"I don't mean to be. I would be glad to praise him, but he is so
overbearing to those whom he considers his inferiors, that I am
frequently ashamed of his manner of treating others."

"The boy has some reason to feel proud. He must maintain his
position."

"What is his position?"

"I don't think you need to ask. As our son he is entitled to a degree
of consideration."

"He will receive consideration enough if he deserves it, but this is a
republic, and all are supposed to be on an equality."

Mrs. Preston tossed her head.

"That's well enough to say, but don't you consider yourself above a
man that goes round sawing wood for a living?"

"At any rate I would treat him with courtesy. Because I am richer, and
have a better education, it is no reason why I should treat him with
contempt."

"Then I don't share your sentiments," said Mrs. Preston. "I am
thankful that I know my position better. I mean to uphold the dignity
of the family, and I hope my son will do the same."

Colonel Preston shrugged his shoulders as his wife swept from the
room. He knew of old her sentiments on this subject, and he was aware
that she was not likely to become a convert to his more democratic
ideas.

"I am afraid she will spoil Godfrey," he thought. "The boy is getting
intolerable. I am glad this Irish boy gave him a lesson. He seems a
fine-spirited lad. I will help him if I can."

"Ellen," said Mrs. Preston the next morning, "when Mrs. Burke comes
let me know."

"Yes, ma'am."

"She's come," announced Ellen, half an hour later.

Mrs. Preston rose from her seat and went into the laundry.

"Good-morning, Mrs. Preston," said Mrs. Burke.

"Good-morning," returned the other, stiffly. "Mrs. Burke, I hear that
your son behaved very badly to my Godfrey yesterday."

"It isn't like Andy, ma'am," said the mother, quietly. "He's a good,
well-behaved lad."

"Godfrey tells me that he made a brutal assault upon him, quite
forgetting his superior position."

"Are you sure Master Godfrey didn't strike him first?" asked the
mother.

"Even if he had, your son shouldn't have struck back."

"Why not?" asked Mrs. Burke, her eyes flashing with spirit, meek as
she generally was.

"Because it was improper," said Mrs. Preston, decisively.

"I don't see that, ma'am. Andy isn't the boy to stand still and be
struck."

"Do I understand," said Mrs. Preston, in a freezing tone, "that you
uphold your son in his atrocious conduct?"

"Yes, ma'am. I stand up for Andy, for he's a good boy, and if he
struck Master Godfrey it was because he was struck first."

"That is enough," said Mrs. Preston, angrily. "I shall not require
your services after to-day, Mrs. Burke."

"Just as you like, ma'am," said Mrs. Burke, with quiet pride, but she
thought, with a sinking heart, of the gap which this would make in her
scanty income.




CHAPTER V
A PROFITABLE JOB


After finishing her work at Colonel Preston's Mrs. Burke went home.
She did not see Mrs. Preston again, for the latter sent her the money
for her services by Ellen.

"Mrs. Preston says you're not to come next week," said Ellen.

"She told me so herself this morning. She is angry because I took the
part of my boy against Master Godfrey."

"Godfrey's the hatefulest boy I ever see," said Ellen, whose grammar
was a little defective. "He's always putting on airs."

"He struck my Andy, and Andy struck him back."

"I'm glad he did," said Ellen, emphatically. "I hope he'll do it
again."

"I don't want the boys to fight. Andy's a peaceable lad; and he'll be
quiet if he's let alone. But he's just like his poor father, and he
won't let anybody trample on him."

"That's where he's right," said Ellen. "I'm sorry you're not coming
again, Mrs. Burke."

"So am I, Ellen, for I need the money, but I'll stand by my boy."

"You iron real beautiful. I've heard Mrs. Preston say so often. She
won't get nobody that'll suit her so well."

"If you hear of anybody else that wants help, Ellen, will you send
them to me?"

This Ellen faithfully promised, and Mrs. Burke went home, sorry to
have lost her engagement, but not sorry to have stood up for Andy, of
whom she was proud.

Andy was at home when she returned. He had found enough to do at home
to occupy him so far. The next day he meant to go out in search of
employment. When his mother got back she found him cutting some brush
which he had obtained from the neighboring woods.

"There, mother," he said, pointing to a considerable pile, "you'll
have enough sticks to last you a good while."

"Thank you, Andy, dear. That'll save Mary and me a good deal of
trouble."

There was nothing in her words, but something in her tone, which led
Andy to ask:

"What's the matter, mother? Has anything happened?"

"I've got through working for Mrs. Preston, Andy."

"Got through? For to-day, you mean?"

"No; I'm not going to work there again."

"Why not?"

"She complained of you, Andy."

"What did she say, mother?" asked our hero, listening with attention.

"She said you ought not to have struck Godfrey."

"Did you tell her he struck me first?"

"Yes, I did."

"And what did she say, thin?"

"She said that you ought not to have struck him back."

"And what did you say, mother?"

"I said my Andy wasn't the boy to stand still and let anybody beat
him."

"Good for you, mother! Bully for you! That's where you hit the nail on
the head. And what did the ould lady say then?"

"She told me I needn't come there again to work."

"I'm glad you're not goin', mother. I don't want you to work for the
likes of her. Let her do her own ironin', the ould spalpeen!"

In general, Andy's speech was tolerably clear of the brogue, but
whenever he became a little excited, as at present, it was more
marked. He was more angry at the slight to his mother than he would
have been at anything, however contemptuous, said to himself. He had
that chivalrous feeling of respect for his mother which every boy of
his age ought to have, more especially if that mother is a widow.

"But, Andy, I'm very sorry for the money I'll lose."

"How much is it, mother?"

"Seventy-five cents."

"I'll make it up, mother."

"I know you will if you can, Andy; but work is hard to get, and the
pay is small."

"You might go back and tell Mrs. Preston that I'm a dirty spalpeen,
and maybe she'd take you back, mother."

"I wouldn't slander my own boy like that if she'd take me back twenty
times."

"That's the way to talk, mother," said Andy, well pleased. "Don't you
be afeared--we'll get along somehow. More by token, here's three
dollars I brought home with me yisterday."

Andy pulled out from his pocket six silver half-dollars, and offered
them to his mother.

"Where did you get them, Andy?" she asked, in surprise.

"Where did I get them? One way and another, by overwork. We won't
starve while them last, will we?"

Andy's cheerful tone had its effect upon his mother.

"Perhaps you're right, Andy," she said, smiling. "At any rate we won't
cry till it's time."

"To-morrow I'll go out and see if I can find work."

"Suppose you don't find it, Andy?" suggested his sister.

"Then I'll take in washing," said Andy, laughing. "It's an iligant
washer I'd make, wouldn't I now?"

"Nobody'd hire you more than once, Andy."

By and by they had supper. If they had been alone they would have got
along on bread and tea; but "Andy needs meat, for he's a growing boy,"
said his mother.

And so Mary was dispatched to the butcher's for a pound and a half of
beefsteak, which made the meal considerably more attractive. Mrs.
Burke felt that it was extravagant, particularly just as her income
was diminished, but she couldn't bear to stint Andy. At first she was
not going to eat, herself, meaning to save a part for Andy's
breakfast; but our hero found her out, and declared he wouldn't eat a
bit if his mother did not eat, too. So she was forced to take her
share, and it did her good, for no one can keep up a decent share of
strength on bread and tea alone.

The next morning Andy went out in search of work. He had no very
definite idea where to go, or to whom to apply, but he concluded to
put in an application anywhere he could.

He paused in front of the house of Deacon Jones, a hard-fisted old
farmer, whose reputation for parsimony was well known throughout the
village, but of this Andy, being a newcomer, was ignorant.

"Wouldn't you like to hire a good strong boy?" he asked, entering the
yard.

The deacon looked up.

"Ever worked on a farm?"

"Yes."

"Can you milk?"

"Yes."

"Where did you work?"

"In Carver."

"What's your name?"

"Andy Burke."

"Where do you live?"

"With my mother, Mrs. Burke, a little way down the road."

"I know--the Widder Burke."

"Have you got any work for me?"

"Wait a minute, I'll see."

The deacon brought out an old scythe from the barn, and felt of the
edge. There was not much danger in so doing, for it was as dull as a
hoe.

"This scythe needs sharpening," he said. "Come and turn the
grindstone."

"Well, here's a job, anyhow," thought Andy. "Wonder what he'll give
me."

He sat down and began to turn the grindstone. The deacon bore on
heavily, and this made it hard turning. His arms ached, and the
perspiration stood on his brow. It was certainly pretty hard work, but
then he must be prepared for that, and after all he was earning money
for his mother. Still the time did seem long. The scythe was so
intolerably dull that it took a long time to make any impression upon
it.

"Kinder hard turnin', ain't it?" said the deacon.

"Yes," said Andy.

"This scythe ain't been sharpened for ever so long. It's as dull as a
hoe."

However, time and patience work wonders, and at length the deacon,
after a careful inspection of the blade of the scythe, released Andy
from his toil of an hour and a half, with the remark:

"I reckon that'll do."

He put the scythe in its place and came out.

Andy lingered respectfully for the remuneration of his labor.

"He ought to give me a quarter," he thought. But the deacon showed no
disposition to pay him, and Andy became impatient.

"I guess I'll be goin'," he said.

"All right. I ain't got anything more for you to do," said the deacon.

"I'll take my pay now," said Andy, desperately.

"Pay? What for?" inquired the deacon, innocently.

"For turning the grindstone."

"You don't mean ter say you expect anything for that?" said the deacon
in a tone of surprise.

"Yes I do," said Andy. "I can't work an hour and a half for nothing."

"I didn't expect to pay for such a trifle," said the old man, fumbling
in his pocket.

Finally he brought out two cents, one of the kind popularly known as
bung-towns, which are not generally recognized as true currency.

"There," said he in an injured tone. "I'll pay you, though I didn't
think you'd charge anything for any little help like that."

Andy looked at the proffered compensation with mingled astonishment
and disgust.

"Never mind," he said. "You can keep it. You need it more'n I do, I'm
thinkin'!"

"Don't you want it?" asked the deacon, surprised.

"No, I don't. I'm a poor boy, but I don't work an hour and a half for
two cents, one of 'em bad. I'd rather take no pay at all."

"That's a cur'us boy," said the deacon, slowly sliding the pennies
back into his pocket. "I calc'late he expected more just for a little
job like that. Does he think I'm made of money?"

As Andy went out of the yard, the idea dawned upon the deacon that he
had saved two cents, and his face was luminous with satisfaction.




CHAPTER VI
THE TWO OLD MAIDS


"He's the meanest man I ever saw," thought Andy. "Does he think I work
on nothing a year, and find myself? Divil a bit of work will I do for
him agin, if I know it." But better luck was in store for Andy.
Quarter of a mile farther on, in a two-story house, old-fashioned but
neat, lived two maiden ladies of very uncertain age, Misses Priscilla
and Sophia Grant. I am not aware that any relationship existed between
them and our distinguished ex-President. Nevertheless, they were of
very respectable family and connections, and of independent property,
owning bank stock which brought them in an annual income of about
twelve hundred dollars, in addition to the house they occupied, and
half a dozen acres of land thereunto pertaining. Now, this was not a
colossal fortune, but in a country place like Crampton it made them
ladies of large property.

Priscilla was the elder of the two, and general manager. Sophia
contented herself with being the echo of her stronger-minded sister,
and was very apt to assent to her remarks, either by repeating them,
or by saying: "Just so." She was a mild, inoffensive creature, but
very charitable and amiable, and so little given to opposition that
there was always the greatest harmony between them. They kept a
gardener and out-of-door servant of all work, who cultivated the land,
sawed and split their wood, ran of errands, and made himself generally
useful. He had one drawback, unfortunately. He would occasionally
indulge to excess in certain fiery alcoholic compounds sold at the
village tavern, and, as natural consequence, get drunk. He had usually
the good sense to keep out of the way while under the influence of
liquor, and hitherto the good ladies had borne with and retained him
in their employ.

But a crisis had arrived. That morning he had come for orders while
inebriated, and in his drunken folly had actually gone so far as to
call Miss Priscilla darling and offer to kiss her.

Miss Priscilla was, of course, horrified, and so expressed herself.

"Law, Sophia," she said, "I came near fainting away. The idea of his
offering to kiss me."

"Just so," said Sophia.

"So presuming."

"Just so."

"Of course, I couldn't think of employing him any longer."

"Couldn't think of it."

"He might have asked to kiss me again."

"Just so."

"Or you!"

"Just so," said Sophia, in some excitement of manner.

"The neighbors would talk."

"Just so."

"So I told him that I was very sorry, but it would be necessary for
him to find work somewhere else."

"But who will do our work?" inquired Sophia, with a rare, original
suggestion.

"We must get somebody else."

"So we must," acquiesced Sophia, as if she had suddenly received light
on a very dark subject.

"But I don't know who we can get."

"Just so."

At that moment there was a knock at the door. Priscilla answered it in
person. They kept no domestic servant, only a gardener.

"I've brought the load of wood you ordered, ma'am," said the teamster.
"Where shall I put it?"

"In the backyard. John--no, John has left us. I will show you,
myself."

She put on a cape-bonnet and indicated the place in the yard where she
wanted the wood dumped.

Then she returned to the house.

"It's very awkward that John should have acted so," she said, in a
tone of annoyance. "I don't know who is to saw and split that wood."

"We couldn't do it," said Sophia, with another original suggestion.

"Of course not. That would be perfectly absurd."

"Just so."

"I don't believe there is enough wood sawed and split to last through
the day."

"We must have some split."

"Of course. But I really don't know of anyone in the neighborhood that
we could get."

"John."

"John has gone away. You know why."

"Perhaps he wouldn't kiss us if we told him not to," suggested Sophia.

"I am afraid you are a goose," said Priscilla, composedly.

"Just so," slipped out of Sophia's mouth from force of habit, but her
sister was so used to hearing it that she took no particular notice of
it on the present occasion.

It was just at this time that Andy, released from his severe and
unrequited labor for Deacon Jones, came by. He saw the wood being
unloaded in the back yard, and an idea struck him.

"Maybe I can get the chance of sawin' and splittin' that wood. I'll
try, anyway. I wonder who lives there?"

He immediately opened the front gate, and marching up to the front
door, knocked vigorously.

"There's somebody at the door," said Sophia.

"Perhaps it's John come back," said Priscilla. "I am afraid of going
to open it. He might want to kiss me again."

"I'll go," said Sophia, rising with unwonted alacrity.

"He might want to kiss you."

"I'll tell him not to."

"We'll both go," said Priscilla, decisively.

Accordingly, the two sisters, for mutual protection, both went to the
door, and opened it guardedly. Their courage returned when they saw
that it was only a boy.

"What do you want?" asked Priscilla.

"Just so," chimed in Sophia.

"You've got a load of wood in the back yard," commenced Andy.

"Just so," said Sophia.

"Do you want it sawed and split?"

"Just so," answered the younger sister, brightening up.

"Can you do it?" inquired Priscilla.

"Try me and see," answered Andy.

"You're not a man."

"Just so," chimed in her sister.

"Faith, and I soon will be," said Andy. "I can saw and split wood as
well as any man you ever saw."

"What is your name?"

"Andy Burke."

"Are you a--Hibernian?" inquired Priscilla.

"I don't know what you mane by that same," said Andy, perplexed.

"To what nation do you belong?"

"Oh, that's what you want, ma'am. I'm only an Irish boy."

"And you say your name is Burke?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Are you related to Burke, the great orator? He was an Irishman, I
believe."

"Just so," said Sophia.

"He was my great-grandfather, ma'am," answered Andy, who had never
heard of the eminent orator, but thought the claim would improve his
chances of obtaining the job of sawing and splitting wood.

"Your great-grandfather!" exclaimed Priscilla, in astonishment.
"Really, this is most extraordinary. And you are poor?"

"If I wasn't I wouldn't be goin' round sawin' wood, ma'am."

"Just so," said Sophia.

"To think that the grandson of the great Burke should come to us for
employment," said Priscilla, who was in some respects easily taken in.
"I think we must hire him, Sophia."

"Just so."

"Perhaps he could take John's place altogether."

"Just so."

"I must find out whether he understands gardening."

"Just so."

Andy stood by, waiting patiently for the decision, and hoping that it
might be favorable. Of course, it was wrong for him to tell a lie, but
he thought his engagement depended upon it, and, although a very good
boy in the main, he was not altogether perfect, as my readers are
destined to find out.




CHAPTER VII
ANDY OBTAINS A PLACE


"Do you understand the care of a garden?" asked Miss Priscilla.

"Yes," answered Andy, promptly.

"Then you are used to agricultural labor?"

"I've been workin' on a farm all summer."

"Our man has just left us, and we must hire somebody else."

"Just so," chimed in Sophia.

"And if you are competent----"

"Just so."

"Try me," said Andy.

"I really think we'd better, Sophia," said Priscilla, turning to her
sister.

"Just so."

"We'll try you for a week. What compensation do you require?"

"Is it wages you mane?"

Of course, Sophia was the speaker.

"How much did you give the man you had before me?" asked Andy,
shrewdly.

"Twenty-five dollars a month and board."

"That'll suit me," said Andy, audaciously.

At the farmer's for whom he had been working he had received board and
a dollar a week.

"But you are a boy. Men folks get more than boys."

"I'll do as much work as he did any day," said Andy, stoutly.

"I really don't know what to say. I think we'll give you five dollars
the first week, and then we will decide about the future."

"Just so," said Sophia.

"I'm to eat here?" inquired Andy.

"Yes, you will make your home here. We will put you in John's room."

"When shall I begin?"

"We shall need some wood split at once."

"All right, ma'am; but it's dinner time. I'll just go home and get a
bite to keep up my strength."

"You can have your dinner here. It will be ready in half an hour."

"Just so."

"All right," said Andy; "I'm agreeable."

"Do you live in the village?"

"I do now. My mother lives up the road a bit."

"Very well. Go and split some wood, and we'll call you in to dinner.
You'll find the ax and the saw in the shed."

Andy found the articles referred to, and straight-way went to work. He
was really a "smart boy to work," as the phrase is, and he went to
work with a will. He was greatly elated at having secured so
profitable a job. He meant to give satisfaction, so as to keep it.
Five dollars a week and board seemed to him a magnificent income, and
compared very favorably with his wages at Farmer Belknap's, where he
had been working all summer.

"It's lucky I came here," he said to himself, as he plied the saw
energetically; "but what queer old ladies they are, especially the one
that's always sayin' 'just so.' If I'd tell her I'd got fifty-seven
grand-children I'll bet she'd say, 'Just so.'"

Miss Sophia was looking out of the back window to see how their new
"man" worked. Occasionally Priscilla, as she was setting the table,
glanced out of the window in passing.

"He takes hold as if he knew how," she observed.

"Just so," responded her sister.

"I think he works faster than John."

"Just so."

"It's very strange that he should be the great-grandson of the great
Burke."

"Just so."

"And that he should be sawing wood for us, too."

"Just so."

"I think we must be kind to him, sister."

"Just so. He won't try to kiss you, Priscilla," said Sophia, with a
sudden thought.

"You are a goose, sister," said Priscilla.

"Just so," assented the other, from force of habit.

In due time dinner was ready, and Andy was summoned from the woodpile.
He was in nowise sorry for the summons. He had a hearty appetite at
all times, and just now it was increased by his unrequited labor in
turning the grindstone for Deacon Jones, as well as by the half-hour
he had spent at his new task.

The Misses Grant did their own work, as I have before observed. They
were excellent cooks, and the dinner now upon the table, though plain,
was very savory and inviting. Andy's eyes fairly danced with
satisfaction as they rested on the roast beef and vegetables, which
emitted an odor of a highly satisfactory character. At the farmer's
where he had last worked, the table had been plentifully supplied, but
the cooking was very rudimentary.

"Sit down, Andrew," said Miss Priscilla. "I think that is your name."

"They call me 'Andy,' ma'am."

"That means Andrew. Shall I give you some meat?"

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Will you have it rare or well done?"

"Well done, ma'am. I have it rare enough, anyhow."

"Sophia, Andrew has made a joke," said Priscilla, with a decorous
smile.

"Just so, Priscilla," and Sophia smiled also.

"I suppose your family has been reduced to poverty, Andrew, or you
would not be seeking employment of this character?"

"True for you, ma'am," said Andy, with his mouth full.

"How was your family property lost?"

"Faith, ma'am, by speculation," said Andy, hazarding a guess.

"That is very sad. Sophia, we must never speculate."

"Just so, Priscilla."

"Or we might lose all our money."

"And have to saw wood for a living," said Sophia, with another
brilliant idea.

Andy was so amused at the picture thus suggested that he came near
choking, but recovered himself, after a violent attack of coughing.

"I am afraid, Sophia, we should scarcely make a living in that way,"
said Priscilla, with a smile.

"Just so," acquiesced her sister.

"How long have you been in this country, Andrew?"

"Six years, ma'am."

Andy kept at work industriously. His appetite proved to be quite equal
to the emergency, but his evident enjoyment of the dinner only
gratified the ladies, who, though eccentric, were kind-hearted, and
not in the least mean.

"What will I do, ma'am?" asked our hero.

"You may go on sawing wood."

So Andy resumed work, and worked faithfully during the afternoon. By
this time there was a large pile of wood ready for the stove.

At half-past four Miss Priscilla appeared at the door.

"Andrew," she said.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Do you feel tired?"

"A little, ma'am."

"Does your mother know where you are?"

"No, ma'am."

"Would you like to go home and tell her?"

"Yes, ma'am, I would."

"You can go now or after supper, as you prefer."

"Then I'll go now."

"But remember, we want you to come back and sleep here. We do not feel
safe without a man in the house."

Andy felt rather flattered at being referred to as a man.

"I'll be back any time you name, ma'am," he said.

"Then be here at nine o'clock."

"Very well, ma'am."

Andy put on his coat and hurried home. He wanted to tell his mother
and Mary the good news about his engagement at such unexpected good
wages.

Mrs. Burke looked up inquiringly as he entered the house.

"Where have you been, Andy?" she asked. "I thought I had lost you."

"You don't lose me so easy, mother. Shure, I've been at work."

"At work?"

"Yes--I've got a place."

"What, already? You are lucky, Andy."

"You'll think so, mother. How much do you think I get besides board,
mind?"

"A dollar a week?"

"What do you say to three dollars?"

"You're a lucky boy, Andy. I'm glad for you."

"What do you say to five dollars a week, mother?" asked Andy, in
exultation.

"You're jokin' now, Andy," said his sister. "I don't believe you've
got a place at all."

"I have, thin, and it's five dollars a week I'm to get. Ask the ould
maids I'm workin' for."

"The Miss Grants?"

"I expect so. They're mighty queer old ladies. One of 'm is always
sayin' 'just so.'"

"That is Miss Sophia Grant."

"Just so," said Andy, mimicking her.

"You mustn't do that, Andy. Then it's them you're workin' for?"

"Yes, and they're mighty kind. I'm goin' back to sleep there to-night.
They want a man to purtect them."

Mary laughed.

"Do you call yourself a man, Andy? What could you do if a burglar
tried to get in?"

"I'd give him what Paddy did the drum," said Andy.

"Supper is ready," announced his mother.

It was a cheerful meal. Andy had done much better than his mother
expected, and it seemed likely that they would get along in spite of
her being discharged by Mrs. Preston.




CHAPTER VIII
THE MIDNIGHT ALARM


"It's time for me to be goin' back," said Andy, as the clock indicated
twenty minutes to nine.

"I wish you could sleep at home, Andy," said his mother.

"They want me to purtect them," said our hero, with a little
importance. "I'll pack my clothes in a handkerchief."

"I've got a little carpetbag," said his mother. "That looks more
respectable. When you have earned enough money, you must have a new
suit of clothes."

"How much will they cost, mother?"

"I think we can get a cheap suit for fifteen or twenty dollars. When
you have got the money, we will call on the tailor and see."

"Shure, I'll feel like a gentleman with a suit like that."

"Mary, go and get the carpetbag. I've packed Andy's clothes all ready
for him."

Mary soon reappeared with the carpetbag, and Andy set out on his
return.

Presently, as the clock struck nine, he knocked at the door of the
Misses Grant. The elder opened the door for him.

"You are punctual, Andrew," she said, approvingly.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Are those your clothes?" pointing to the bag he carried.

"What few I've got, ma'am. I'm goin' to buy some more when I've got
money enough."

"That is right. We want you to look respectable."

"Just so," remarked Sophia, who felt that it was time for her to
speak.

Then a brilliant idea seized her.

"If he was a girl, we could give him some of our dresses."

"But he isn't," said matter-of-fact Priscilla.

"Or if we were men," continued Sophia, with another brilliant idea.

"But we are not."

"Just so," assented her sister, now brought to the end of her
suggestions.

By this time Andy was in the house, holding his cap in one hand, and
his carpetbag in the other.

"Do you feel tired?" asked Priscilla.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Then, perhaps you would like to go to bed?"

"I would, if it's just the same to you, ma'am."

"Very well, follow me, and I will show you your room. Sophia, perhaps
you had better come, too."

They went up the front stairs. The house proper had two rooms on the
lower floor, and the two chambers over them. But there was, besides,
an extension behind, used as a kitchen, and over this was the room
which had been used by John, the former servant.

"This is your room, Andrew," said Miss Priscilla. "Sophia, will you
lift the latch?"

The door being opened, revealed a small chamber, with the ceiling
partly sloping. There were two windows. It was very plainly furnished,
but looked very comfortable. Andy glanced about him with a look of
satisfaction. It was considerably more attractive than the bed in the
attic which he had occupied at the house of the farmer for whom he had
last worked.

"We've put the feather bed at the bottom, as it's summer," said Miss
Priscilla.

"All right, ma'am."

"There's one thing you've forgotten, Priscilla," suggested Sophia.

"What is that?"

"The gun."

"Oh, yes. I am glad you reminded me of it. Andrew, can you fire off a
gun?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Andrew, glibly.

He had never done it, but he had seen a gun fired, and always wanted
to make a trial himself.

"As you are the only menfolks in the house, we should expect you to
fire at any robbers that tried to enter the house."

"Do you expect any, ma'am?" asked Andy, eagerly.

"No; but some might come. Of course, we cannot fire guns--it would be
improper, as we are ladies."

"Just so," interrupted Sophia.

"So we shall leave that to you. Do you think you would dare to?"

"Would I dare, is it?" asked Andy. "Shure, I'd be glad of the chance."

"I see you are brave. I'll show you the gun now."

She went to the closet in the corner of the room, and pointed out a
big, unwieldy musket to Andy. It was in the corner.

"Is it loaded, ma'am?" he asked.

"Yes; it has been loaded for a year or more. John never had occasion
to use it, and I hope you won't. If any robber should come," added the
kind-hearted spinster, "perhaps you had better only shoot him in the
arm, and not kill him."

"Just as you say, ma'am."

"I believe that is all I have to say. Sophia, shall we go to our own
room?"

"Just so."

So the two maidens withdrew, and Andy was left to his own reflections.
He undressed himself quickly, and deposited himself in the bed, which
proved to be very comfortable.

He went to bed, but there was one thing that prevented his going to
sleep. This was the gun. He had never even had one in his hand, and
now there was one at his absolute disposal. It made him feel a sense
of his importance to feel that, upon him, young as he was, devolved
the duty of defending the house and its occupants from burglary.

"And why not? Shure, I'm 'most a man," reflected Andy. "I can shoot
off a gun as well as anybody. I wonder will robbers come to-night!"
thought Andy.

He rather wished they would, so that he might have an excuse for
firing the gun. However, of this there seemed very little chance, for
had not Miss Priscilla said that it had been loaded for more than a
year, and during all that time John had never had occasion to use it?
This seemed rather discouraging.

"I wonder would they let me go out gunning with it?" thought Andy.

Somehow or other, he could not get his mind off the gun, and, after a
lapse of an hour, he was as wide awake as ever.

Meanwhile, Priscilla and Sophia were both asleep, not being interested
in the gun.

Finally it occurred to Andy that he would get up and look at the gun.
He wanted to make sure that he understood how to fire it. It was
important that he should do so, he reasoned to himself, for might not
a burglar come that very night? Then, suppose he was unable to fire
the gun, and in consequence of his ignorance, both he and the two
ladies should be murdered in their beds. Of course, this was not to be
thought of, so Andy got out of bed, and, finding a match, lit the
candle and put it on the bureau, or chest of drawers, as they called
it in the country.

Then he stepped softly to the closet and took out the gun.

"Murder! how heavy it is!" thought Andy. "I didn't think it was half
as heavy. There must be a pound of bullets inside. Now," he said to
himself, "suppose a big thafe was to poke his dirty head in at the
winder and say, 'Give me all your money, or I'll break your head'--I'd
put up with the gun and point at him this way."

Here Andy brought the gun into position with some difficulty and put
his finger near the trigger.

"And I'd say," continued Andy, rehearsing his part, "'Jump down, you
thafe, or I'll put a bullet through your head.'"

At that unlucky moment his finger accidentally pulled the trigger, and
instantly there was a tremendous report, the noise being increased by
the shattering of the window panes by the bullet.

Probably the charge was too heavy, for the gun "kicked," and Andy, to
his astonishment, found himself lying flat on his back on the floor,
with the gun lying beside him.

"Oh, murder!" ejaculated the bewildered boy, "is it dead I am? Shure,
the divil's in the gun. What will the ould wimmen say? They'll think
it's bloody burglars gettin' into the house. Shure, I'll slip on my
pants, for they'll be coming to see what's happened."

He picked himself up, and slipped on his pants. He had scarcely got
them on when the trembling voice of Miss Priscilla was heard at the
door.




CHAPTER IX
WHAT FOLLOWED


The report of the gun, as may be supposed, had aroused both the ladies
from their sleep.

"Did you hear it?" ejaculated Miss Priscilla, clutching her sister by
the arm.

"Just so," muttered Sophia, in bewilderment. "It's the gun."

"Burglars!" exclaimed Sophia, in alarm.

"I am afraid so. What shall we do?"

"Run away," suggested Sophia.

"No, we must not leave the boy to be murdered."

"Perhaps he has shot them?" said Sophia, with a gleam of hope.

"At any rate, it is our duty to go and see what has happened."

"I'm afraid," whimpered Sophia, covering up her head.

"Then you can stay here," said the more courageous Priscilla. "I will
go."

"And leave me alone?"

"I must."

"I'll go too, then," said Sophia, her teeth chattering with fear.

So they crept out of bed, and throwing shawls over their shoulders,
advanced into the entry, trembling with excitement and fear.

"If we should find Andy weltering in his gore?" suggested Priscilla.

"Don't say such horrid things, or I shall scream," said her sister.

Then came the tremulous knock mentioned at the close of the last
chapter.

Andy opened the door in person, and met the gaze of the two Miss
Grants, Sophia almost ready to drop with fright.

"Do you see any gore, Priscilla?" she asked, tremulously.

"Are you hurt, Andrew?" asked the elder sister.

"No, ma'am."

"Did you fire the gun?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"What made you? Did any burglars try to get in?"

"Not exactly, ma'am," said Andy; "but I thought there might be some."

"Did you see any?"

"Not exactly," said Andy, a little embarrassed; "but I heard a noise."

"Just so," said Sophia.

"Why didn't you wait till they appeared at the window, Andrew?"

"Because, ma'am, they would fire at me first. I wanted to scare 'em
away."

"Perhaps you were right. You don't see any traces of them outside, do
you?"

"You can look for yourself, ma'am."

The two ladies went to the window, which as already explained, had
suffered from the discharge, and peered out timidly, but, of course,
saw no burglars.

"Are you sure there were any burglars, Andrew?" asked Priscilla.

"No, ma'am, I couldn't swear to it."

"Well, no harm has been done."

"Except breakin' the winder, ma'am."

"Never mind; we will have that mended to-morrow."

"Were you afraid, Andrew?" asked Miss Sophia.

"Not a bit," answered Andy, valiantly. "I ain't afraid of burglars, as
long as I have a gun. I'm a match for 'em."

"How brave he is!" exclaimed the timid lady. "We might have been
killed in our beds. I'm glad we hired him, Priscilla."

"As there is nothing more to do, we had better go to bed."

"Just so."

"That's a bully way to get out of a scrape," said Andy to himself, as
the ladies filed out of his chamber. "I expected they'd scold me.
Plague take the old gun--it kicks as bad as a mule. Oh, Andy, you're a
lucky boy to get off so well."

The next day Andy obtained permission to take out the gun in the
afternoon when his chores were done.

"I want to get used to it, ma'am," he said. "It kicked last night."

"Dear me, did it?" asked Sophia. "I didn't know guns kicked. What do
they kick with? They haven't got any legs."

Andy explained as well as he could what he meant by the gun's kicking,
and said it was because it had not been used for a good while, and
needed to be taken out.

"It needs exercise, just like horses, ma'am," he said.

"That is singular, Andrew," said Priscilla.

"Just so," observed her sister.

"It's a fact, ma'am," said Andy. "It gets skittish, just like
horses--but if I take it out sometimes, it'll be all right."

"Very well, you may take it, only be careful."

"Oh, I'll be careful, ma'am," said Andy, with alacrity.

"Now, I'll have some fun," he said to himself.

He found a supply of powder and some shot in the closet, and proceeded
to appropriate them.

"Come back in time for supper, Andrew," said Miss Priscilla.

"Yes, ma'am, I'm always on hand at meal times," answered our hero.

"That's because he's hungry," said Sophia, brilliantly.

"You're right, ma'am," said Andy; "my stomach always tells me when
it's supper time."

"It's as good as a watch," said Priscilla, smiling.

"And a good deal cheaper," observed Sophia, with another brilliant
idea.

Andy started up the road with his gun over his shoulder. It was his
intention after going a little distance to strike into the fields, and
make for some woods not far away, where he thought there would be a
good chance for birds or squirrels. He hadn't gone many steps before
he encountered Godfrey Preston, his antagonist of three days previous.

Now, Godfrey hadn't seen or heard anything of Andy since that day. He
had learned from his mother with great satisfaction that she had
discharged Mrs. Burke from her employment, as this, he imagined, would
trouble Andy. But of Andy himself he knew nothing, and was not aware
that he had already secured a place. When he saw our hero coming
along, his curiosity led him to stop and find out, if he could, where
he was going with the gun he carried on his shoulder, and where he
obtained it. So he looked intently at Andy, waiting for him to speak,
but Andy preferred to leave that to him.

"Whose gun is that?" asked Godfrey, in the tone of one who was
entitled to ask the question.

"Shure, it belongs to the owner," said Andy, with a smile.

"Of course, I know that," said Godfrey, impatiently. "I'm not quite a
fool."

"Not quite," repeated Andy, emphasizing the last word in a way which
made Godfrey color.

"What do you mean?" he said.

"What do I mane? It was only your words I repeated."

"Then, don't trouble yourself to repeat them--do you hear?"

"Thank you; I won't."

"You didn't tell me whose gun that is."

"No, I didn't."

"Very likely you stole it," said Godfrey, provoked.

"Maybe you'll go and tell the owner."

"How can I when you haven't told me whose it is?"

"No more I did," said Andy with apparent innocence.

"Where are you going with it?"

"Goin' out shootin'."

"So I supposed."

"Did you, now? Then what made you ask?" returned Andy.

"You are an impudent fellow," said Godfrey, provoked.

"I never am impudent to gentlemen," said Andy, pointedly.

"Do you mean to say that I am not a gentleman?" demanded the other,
angrily.

"Suit yourself," said Andy, coolly.

"You're only an Irish boy."

"Shure, I knew that before. Why can't you tell me some news? I'm an
Irish boy and I'm proud of the same. I'll never go back on ould
Ireland."

"The Irish are a low set."

"Are they now? Maybe you never heard of Burke, the great orator."

"What of him?"

"Shure, he was an Irishman; and isn't my name Andy Burke, and wasn't
he my great-grandfather?"

"He must be proud of his great-grandson," said Godfrey, sarcastically.

"I never axed him, but no doubt you're right. But it's time I was
goin', or I shan't get any birds. Would you like to come with me?"

"No, I am particular about the company I keep."

"I'm not, or I wouldn't have invited you," said Andy, who was rather
quicker witted than his opponent.

"I should like to know where he got that gun," said Godfrey to
himself, following with his eyes the retreating figure of our hero. "I
am sure that isn't his gun. Ten to one he stole it from somebody."

But Godfrey's curiosity was not destined to be gratified that
afternoon, as it might have been if he had seen Andy turning into the
yard of the Misses Grant two hours afterward. He had not shot
anything, but he had got used to firing the gun, and was not likely to
be caught again in any such adventure as that recorded in the last
chapter.




CHAPTER X
ANDY'S DEBUT AT SCHOOL


The first of September came, and with it came the opening of the fall
schools. On the first day, when Andy, at work in the yard, saw the
boys and the girls go by with their books, he felt a longing to go,
too. He knew very well that his education had been very much
neglected, and that he knew less of books than a boy of his age ought
to do.

"I wish I could go to school this term," he said to himself; "but it's
no use wishin'. Mother needs my wages, and I must keep on workin'."

The same thought had come to the Misses Grant. Andy had been in their
employ now for six weeks, and by his unfailing good humor and
readiness to oblige, had won their favor. They felt interested in his
progress, and, at the same moment that the thought referred to passed
though Andy's mind, Miss Priscilla said to her sister:

"The fall school begins to-day. There's Godfrey Preston just passed
with some books under his arm."

"Just so."

"I suppose Andrew would like to be going to school with other boys of
his age."

"Just so."

"Don't you think we could spare him to go half the day?"

"Just so," said Sophia, with alacrity.

"There isn't so much work to do now as there was in the summer, and he
could do his chores early in the morning. He could go to school in the
forenoon and work in the afternoon."

"Just so, Priscilla. Shall we give him less wages?"

"No, I think not. He needs the money to give his mother."

"Call him in and tell him," suggested Sophia.

"It will do at dinner time."

"Just so."

When the dinner was over, and Andy rose from the table, Miss Priscilla
introduced the subject.

"Are you a good scholar, Andrew?"

"I'm a mighty poor one, ma'am."

"Did you ever study much?"

"No, ma'am, I've had to work ever since I was so high," indicating a
point about two feet from the ground.

"Dear me," said Sophia, "you must have been very small."

"Yes, ma'am, I was very small of my size."

"I've been thinking, Andrew, that perhaps we could spare you half the
day, so that you could go to school in the forenoon--you could learn
something in three hours--should you like it?"

"Would I like it, ma'am? Wouldn't I, though? I don't want to grow up a
poor, ignorant crathur, hardly able to read and write."

"Then you can go to school to-morrow, and ask the teacher if he will
take you for half the day. You can get up early, and get your chores
done before school."

"Oh, yes, ma'am, I can do that easy."

"I think we have some schoolbooks in the house. Some years ago we had
a nephew stay with us, and go to school. I think his books are still
in the closet."

"Thank you, ma'am. It'll save me buyin', and I haven't got any money
to spare."

"We shall give you the same wages, Andrew, though you will work less."

"Thank you, ma'am. You're very kind."

"Try to improve your time in school, as becomes the great-grandson of
such a distinguished orator."

"I'll try, ma'am," said Andy, looking a little queer at this allusion
to the great Edmund Burke. In fact, he was ashamed of having deceived
the kind old ladies, but didn't like now to own up to the deception
lest they should lose confidence in him. But he determined hereafter
to speak the truth, and not resort to deception.

The next morning, at twenty minutes of nine, Andy left the house
provided with books, and joyfully took his way to the schoolhouse,
which was a quarter of a mile distant. As he ascended the small hill
on which it stood, he attracted the attention of a group of boys who
had already arrived. Among them was his old adversary, Godfrey
Preston.

"Is that Irish boy coming to school?" he said in a tone of disgust.

"What? Andy Burke? I hope so," said Charles Fleming, "he's a good
fellow."

"He's only an Irish boy," said Godfrey, with a sneer.

"And I am only an American boy," said Charles, good-humoredly.

"You can associate with him if you want to; I shan't," said Godfrey.

"That's where I agree with you, Godfrey," said Ben Travers, who made
himself rather a toady of Godfrey's.

Andy had now come up, so that Charles Fleming did not reply, but
called out, cordially:

"Are you coming to school, Andy?"

"Yes," said Andy.

"I'm glad of it."

"Thank you," said Andy. "What's the matter with them fellows," as
Godfrey and Bill Travers walked off haughtily, tossing their heads.

Charles Fleming laughed.

"They don't think we are good enough for their company," he said.

"I'm not anxious for it," said Andy. "I like yours better."

"I didn't think you could get away from work to come to school. Are
you working for Miss Grant now?"

"Yes, but she lets me come to school half the day. She's a bully ould
lady."

"Well, half a loaf's better than no bread. Will you sit with me? I've
got no one at my desk. Say yes."

"It's just what I'd like, Charlie, but maybe Godfrey Preston wants to
sit with me. I wouldn't like to disappoint him," said Andy, with sly
humor.

"Sit with me till he invites you, then."

"That'll be a long day."

They went into the schoolhouse, and Andy deposited his books in the
desk next to Charlie Fleming's. He couldn't have wished for a better
or more agreeable companion. Charlie was the son of Dr. Fleming, the
village physician, and was a general favorite in the town on account
of his sunny, attractive manner. But, with all his affability, he was
independent and resolute, if need be. He was one of the leaders of the
school. Godfrey aspired also to be a leader, and was to some extent on
account of his father's wealth and high standing, for, as we have
seen, Colonel Preston was not like his son. Still, it is doubtful
whether anyone was much attached to Godfrey. He was too selfish in
disposition, and offensively consequential in manner, to inspire
devoted friendship. Ben Travers, however, flattered him, and followed
him about, simply because he was the son of a rich man. Such cases
occur sometimes among American schoolboys, but generally they are too
democratic and sensible to attach importance to social distinctions in
the schoolroom, or in the playground.

When the teacher--a certain Ebenezer Stone, a man of thirty or
upward--entered, Andy went up to him and asked permission to attend
school a part of the time. As there had been such cases in former
terms, no objection was offered by the teacher, and Andy went back to
his seat, a regularly admitted member of the school.

It was found necessary to put him in a low class to begin with. He was
naturally bright, but, as we know, his opportunities of learning had
been very limited, and he could not be expected to know much. But Andy
was old enough now to understand the worth of knowledge, and he
devoted himself so earnestly to study that in the course of three
weeks he was promoted to a higher class. This, however, is
anticipating.

When recess came, the scholars poured out upon the playround. Charles
Fleming and Godfrey Preston happened to pass out side by side.

"I see you've taken that Irish boy to sit with you," he said.

"You mean Andy Burke? Yes, I invited him to be my desk-fellow."

"I congratulate you on your high-toned and aristocratic associate,"
observed Godfrey, sarcastically.

"Thank you. I am glad to have him with me."

"I wouldn't condescend to take him into my seat."

"Nor do I. There isn't any condescension about it."

"He works for a living."

"So does my father, and so does yours. Are you going to cut your
father's acquaintance for that reason?"

"My father could live without work."

"He doesn't choose to, and that's where he shows his good sense."

"It's a different kind of work from sawing and splitting wood, and
such low labor."

"It strikes me, Godfrey, that you ought to have been born somewhere
else than in America. In this country labor is considered honorable.
You ought to be living under a monarchy."

"I don't believe in associating with inferiors."

"I don't look upon Andy Burke as my inferior," said Charlie. "He is
poor, to be sure, but he is a good fellow, and helps support his
mother and sister, as I would do in his place."

"Charlie Fleming," was heard from the playground, "come and choose up
for baseball."

Without waiting for an answer, Charlie ran to the field alongside the
schoolhouse, where the game was to take place.




CHAPTER XI
A GAME OF BALL


"Come here," said Conrad Fletcher; "come here, Charlie, and choose up
for a game. We must make haste, or recess will be over."

"All right, Conrad."

The first choice devolved upon Conrad. He chose Ephraim Pinkham, noted
as a catcher.

"I take Elmer Rhodes," said Charlie.

"John Parker," said Conrad.

"Henry Strauss."

"Godfrey Preston," was Conrad's next choice.

"Can you play, Andy?" asked Charlie.

"Yes," said Andy.

"Then, I take you."

"I've a good mind to resign," said Godfrey, in a low voice, to Ben
Travers. "I don't fancy playing with that Irish boy."

However, he was too fond of playing to give up his place,
notwithstanding his antipathy to Andy.

Charlie Fleming's side went in first, and Charlie himself went to the
bat. The pitcher was Godfrey. He was really a fair pitcher, and
considered himself very superior. Charlie finally succeeded in hitting
the ball, but rather feebly, and narrowly escaped losing his first
base. He saved it, however.

Next at the bat was Elmer Rhodes. He hit one or two fouls, but not a
fair ball. Finally he was put out on three strikes; meanwhile,
however, Charlie Fleming got round to third base. Henry Strauss
succeeded in striking the ball, but it was caught by center field,
rapidly sent to first base, before Henry could reach it, then thrown
to the catcher in time to prevent Charlie Fleming from getting in. He
ran half-way to home base, but seeing his danger, ran back to third
base. Next Andy took the bat.

"Knock me in, Andy," called out Charlie Fleming.

"All right" said Andy, quietly.

"Not if I can prevent it," said Godfrey to himself, and he determined
by sending poor balls, to get our hero out on three strikes. The first
ball, therefore, he sent about six feet to the right of the batter.
Andy stood in position, but, of course, was far too wise to attempt
hitting any such ball. The next ball went several feet above his head.
Of this, too, he took no notice. The third would have hit him if he
had not dodged.

"Why don't you knock at the balls?" asked Godfrey.

"I will, when you give better ones," said Andy, coolly.

"I don't believe you know how to bat," said Godfrey, with a sneer.

"I don't believe you know how to pitch," returned Andy.

"How's that?" sending another ball whizzing by his left ear.

"I want them waist-high," said Andy. "My waist is about two feet lower
than my ears."

Godfrey now resolved to put in a ball waist-high, but so swiftly that
Andy could not hit it; but he had never seen Andy play. Our hero had a
wonderfully quick eye and steady hand, and struck the ball with such
force to left field, that not only Charlie Fleming got in, without
difficulty, but Andy himself made a home run.

"That's a splendid hit," exclaimed Charlie, with enthusiasm. "I didn't
think you could play so well."

"I've played before to-day," said Andy, composedly. "I told you I
would get you in, and I meant what I said."

Godfrey looked chagrined at the result. He meant to demonstrate that
Andy was no player, but had only contributed to his brilliant success;
for, had he not sent in so swift a ball, the knock would not have been
so forcible.

As there were but six on a side, two outs were considered all out.

"Who will catch?" asked Charlie Fleming; "I want to pitch."

"I will," said Andy.

"All right! If you can catch as you can bat, we'll cut down their
score."

Andy soon showed that he was no novice at catching. He rarely let a
ball pass him. When Godfrey's turn came to bat, one was already out,
and Andy determined to put Godfrey out if it was a possible thing. One
strike had been called, when Godfrey struck a foul which was almost
impossible to catch. But now Andy ran, made a bound into the air, and
caught it--a very brilliant piece of play, by which Godfrey and his
side were put out. The boys on both sides applauded, for it was a
piece of brilliant fielding which not one of them was capable of. That
is, all applauded but Godfrey. He threw down his bat spitefully, and
said to Fleming:

"You didn't give me good balls."

"I gave you much better than you gave Andy," said Charlie.

"That's so!" chimed in two other boys.

"I won't play any more," said Godfrey.

Just then the bell rang, so that the game was brought to a close. Andy
received the compliments of the boys on his brilliant playing. He
received them modestly, and admitted that he probably couldn't make
such a catch again. It was very disagreeable to Godfrey to hear Andy
praised. He was rather proud of his ball-playing, and he saw that Andy
was altogether his superior, at any rate in the opinion of the boys.
However, he ingeniously contrived to mingle a compliment with a sneer.

"You're more used to baseball than to books," he said.

"True for you," said Andy.

"You're a head taller than any of the boys in your class."

"I know that," said Andy. "I haven't been to school as much as you."

"I should be ashamed if I didn't know more."

"So you ought," said Andy, "for you've been to school all your life. I
hope to know more soon."

"Anyway, you can play ball," said Charlie Fleming.

"I'd rather be a good scholar."

"I'll help you, if you want any help."

"Thank you, Charlie."

They had now entered the schoolroom, and Andy took up his book and
studied hard. He was determined to rise to a higher class as soon as
possible, for it was not agreeable to him to reflect that he was the
oldest and largest boy in his present class.

"Very well," said the teacher, when his recitation was over. "If you
continue to recite in this way, you will soon be promoted."

"I'll do my best, sir," said Andy, who listened to these words with
pleasure.

"I wish you were coming in the afternoon, too, Andy," said his friend,
Charlie Fleming, as they walked home together.

"So do I, Charlie, but I must work for my mother."

"That's right, Andy; I'd do the same in your place. I haven't such
foolish ideas about work as Godfrey Preston."

"He ain't very fond of me," said Andy, laughing.

"No; nor of anybody else. He only likes Godfrey Preston."

"We got into a fight the first day I ever saw him."

"What was it about?"

"He called my mother names, and hit me. So I knocked him flat."

"You served him right. He's disgustingly conceited. Nobody likes him."

"Ben Travers goes around with him all the time."

"Ben likes him because he is rich. If he should lose his property,
you'd see how soon he would leave him. That isn't a friend worth
having."

"I've got one consolation," said Andy, laughing; "nobody likes me for
my money."

"But someone likes you for yourself, Andy," said Charlie.

"Who?"

"Myself, to be sure."

"And I like you as much, Charlie," said Andy, warmly. "You're ten
times as good a fellow as Godfrey."

"I hope so," said Charlie. "That isn't saying very much, Andy."

So the friendship was cemented, nor did it end there. Charlie spoke of
Andy's good qualities at home, and some time afterward Andy was
surprised by an invitation to spend the evening at Dr. Fleming's. He
felt a little bashful, but finally went--nor was he at all sorry for
so doing. The whole family was a delightful one, and Andy was welcomed
as a warm friend of Charlie's, and, in the pleasant atmosphere of the
doctor's fireside, he quite forgot that there was one who looked down
upon him as an inferior being.

Dr. Fleming had himself been a poor boy. By a lucky chance--or
Providence, rather--he had been put in the way of obtaining an
education, and he was not disposed now, in his prosperity, to forget
his days of early struggle.

Andy found that, in spite of the three hours taken up at school, he
was able to do all that was required of him by the Misses Grant. They
were glad to hear of his success at school, and continued to pay him
five dollars a week for his services. This money he regularly carried
to his mother, after paying for the new clothes, of which he stood so
much in need.




CHAPTER XII
A LITTLE DIFFICULTY


It has already been said that Godfrey Preston was a conceited and
arrogant boy. He had a very high idea of his own importance, and
expected that others would acknowledge it; but he was not altogether
successful. He would like to have had Andy Burke look up to him as a
member of a superior class, and in that case might have condescended
to patronize him, as a chieftain might in the case of a humble
retainer. But Andy didn't want to be patronized by Godfrey. He never
showed by his manner that he felt beneath him socially, and this
greatly vexed Godfrey.

"His mother used to iron at our house," he said to Ben Travers one
day; "but my mother discharged her. I don't see why the boys treat him
as an equal. I won't, for my part."

"Of course, he isn't your equal," said the subservient Ben. "That's a
good joke."

"He acts as if he was," said Godfrey, discontentedly.

"It's only his impudence."

"You are right," said Godfrey, rather liking this explanation. "He is
one of the most impudent boys I know. I wish my father would send me
to a fashionable school, where I shouldn't meet such fellows. That's
the worst of these public schools--you meet all sorts of persons in
them."

"Of course you do."

"I suppose this Burke will be a hod-carrier, or something of that
kind, when he is a man."

"While you are a member of Congress."

"Very likely," said Godfrey, loftily; "and he will claim that he was
an old schoolmate of mine. It is disgusting."

"Of course it is. However, we needn't notice him."

"I don't mean to."

But in the course of the next week there was an occurrence which
compelled Godfrey to "notice" his detested schoolfellow.

Among the scholars was a very pleasant boy of twelve, named Alfred
Parker. He was the son of a poor widow, and was universally liked for
his amiable and obliging disposition. One morning, before school, he
was engaged in some game which required him to run. He accidentally
ran against Godfrey, who was just coming up the hill, with
considerable force. Now, it was very evident that it was wholly
unintentional; but Godfrey was greatly incensed.

"What do you mean by that, you little scamp?" he exclaimed, furiously.

"Excuse me, Godfrey; I didn't mean to run into you."

"That don't go down."

"Indeed, I didn't. I didn't see you."

"I can't help it. You ought to have been more careful. Take that, to
make you more careful."

As he said this, he seized him by the collar, and, tripping him, laid
him flat on his back.

"For shame, Godfrey!" said another boy standing by; but as it was a
small boy, Godfrey only answered:

"If you say that again, I'll serve you the same way."

Alfred tried to get up, but Godfrey put his knee on his breast.

"Let me up, Godfrey," said Alfred, piteously. "I can't breathe. You
hurt me."

"I'll teach you to run into me," said the bully.

"I didn't mean to."

"I want to make sure of your not doing it again."

"Do let me up," said Alfred.

In return, Godfrey only pressed more heavily, and the little fellow
began to cry. But help was near at hand. Andy Burke happened to come
up the hill just then, and saw what was going on. He had a natural
chivalry that prompted him always to take the weaker side. But besides
this, he liked Alfred for his good qualities, and disliked Godfrey for
his bad ones. He did not hesitate a moment, therefore, but ran up,
and, seizing Godfrey by the collar with a powerful grasp, jerked him
on his back in the twinkling of an eye. Then, completely turning the
tables, he put his knee on Godfrey's breast, and said:

"Now, you know how it is yourself. How do you like it?"

"Let me up," demanded Godfrey, furiously.

"That's what Alfred asked you to do," said Andy, coolly. "Why didn't
you do it?"

"Because I didn't choose," answered the prostrate boy, almost foaming
at the mouth with rage and humiliation.

"Then I don't choose to let you up."

"You shall suffer for this," said Godfrey, struggling, but in vain.

"Not from your hands. Oh, you needn't try so hard to get up. I can
hold you here all day if I choose."

"You're a low Irish boy!"

"You're lower than I am just now," said Andy.

"Let me up."

"Why didn't you let Alfred up?"

"He ran against me."

"Did he mean to?"

"No, I didn't, Andy," said Alfred, who was standing near. "I told
Godfrey so, but he threw me over, and pressed on my breast so hard
that it hurt me."

"In this way," said Andy, increasing the pressure on his prostrate
enemy.

Godfrey renewed his struggles, but in vain.

"Please let him up now, Andy," said Alfred, generously.

"If he'll promise not to touch you any more, I will."

"I won't promise," said Godfrey. "I won't promise anything to a low
beggar."

"Then you must feel the low beggar's knee," said Andy.

"You wouldn't have got me down if I had been looking. You got the
advantage of me."

"Did I? Well, then, I'll give you a chance."

Andy rose to his feet, and Godfrey, relieved from the pressure, arose,
too. No sooner was he up than he flew like an enraged tiger at our
hero, but Andy was quite his equal in strength, and, being cool, had
the advantage.

The result was that in a few seconds he found himself once more on his
back.

"You see," said Andy, "it isn't safe for you to attack me. I won't
keep you down any longer, but if you touch Alfred again, I'll give you
something worse."

Godfrey arose from the ground, and shook his fist at Andy.

"I'll make you remember this," he said.

"I want you to remember it yourself," said Andy.

Godfrey didn't answer, but made his way to the schoolroom, sullenly.

"Thank you, Andy," said Alfred, gratefully, "for saving me from
Godfrey. He hurt me a good deal."

"He's a brute," said Andy, warmly. "Don't be afraid of him, Alfred,
but come and tell me if he touches you again. I'll give him something
he won't like."

"You must be very strong, Andy," said the little boy, admiringly. "You
knocked him over just as easy."

Andy laughed.

"Did you ever know an Irish boy that couldn't fight?" he asked. "I'm
better with my fists than with my brains, Alfred."

"That's because you never went to school much. You're getting on fast,
Andy."

"I'm tryin', Alfred," he said. "It's a shame for a big boy like me not
to know as much as a little boy like you."

"You'll soon get ahead of me, Andy."

Meanwhile Godfrey had taken his place in school, feeling far from
comfortable. He was outraged by the thought that Andy, whom he
regarded as so much beneath him, should have had the audacity to throw
him down, and put his knees on his breast. It made him grind his teeth
when he thought of it. What should he do about it? He wanted to be
revenged in some way, and he meant to be.

Finally he decided to report Andy to the teacher, and, if possible,
induce him to punish him.

"The teacher knows that my father's a man of influence," he said to
himself. "He will believe me before that ragamuffin. If he don't, I'll
try to get him turned away."

When, therefore, the bell rang for recess, and the rest of the
scholars hurried to the playground, Godfrey lingered behind. He waited
till all the boys were gone, and then went up to the teacher.

"Well, Godfrey, what is it?" asked the master.

"Mr. Stone, I want to make a complaint against Andrew Burke," said
Godfrey.

"What has he done?"

"He is a brute," said Godfrey, in an excited manner. "He dared to come
up behind my back before school began, and knock me down. Then he put
his knee on my chest, and wouldn't let me up."

"What made him do it?"

"He knows I don't like him, and am not willing to associate with him."

"Was that all the reason?" asked the teacher, keenly.

"I suppose so," said Godfrey.

"I was not aware that Andy Burke was quarrelsome," said the teacher.
"He behaves well in school."

"Because he knows he must."

"Very well; I will inquire into the matter after recess."

Godfrey went back to his seat, triumphant. He didn't doubt that his
enemy would be severely punished.




CHAPTER XIII
GODFREY'S REBELLION


Having made his complaint, Godfrey waited impatiently for the recess
to close, in order that he might see retribution fall upon the head of
Andy. He had not long to wait. Meanwhile, however, he was missed in
the playground.

"Where's Godfrey?" asked one of the boys.

"He don't want to come out. He got a licking from Andy Burke."

"I ain't much sorry. It'll cure him of some of his airs."

"I don't know about that. It comes natural to him to put on airs."

"If anybody has insulted Godfrey," remarked Ben Travers, his toady,
"he had better look out for himself."

"Do you hear that, Andy? Ben Travers says you must look out for
yourself."

"Who's goin' to punish me?" asked Andy. "If it's Ben, let him come
on."

But Ben showed no disposition to "come on." He could talk and
threaten, but when words were to be succeeded by blows he never was on
hand. In fact he was a coward, and ought to have kept quiet, but it is
just that class that are usually most noisy.

Andy had no idea that Godfrey would complain to the teacher in a
matter where he was so clearly in the wrong, nor would he if he had
not relied upon his father's position to carry him through.

"Mr. Stone is a poor man," he thought, "and he won't dare to take the
part of a low Irish boy against the only son and heir of Colonel
Preston. He knows on which side his bread is buttered, and he won't be
such a fool as to offend my father."

While he said this he knew that it was very doubtful whether his
father would espouse his cause, but then Mr. Stone would probably
suppose he would, which would answer the same purpose on the present
occasion.

When Andy re-entered the schoolroom with the rest of the boys at the
termination of recess, he saw Godfrey in his seat. The latter darted
at him a glance of malicious triumph.

When the noise of entering was over, Mr. Stone said:

"Andrew Burke, come forward!"

Considerably surprised, Andy came forward, and looked up with a modest
self-possession into the teacher's face.

"A complaint has been entered against you, Andrew," Mr. Stone began.

"What is it, sir?" asked Andy.

"You are charged by Godfrey Preston with violently assaulting and
throwing him down, just before school commenced. Is this true?"

"Yes, sir," answered Andy, promptly.

"You are charged with kneeling down upon him, and preventing his
getting up."

"That is true," said Andy, quite composedly.

"I am surprised that you should have acted in this manner," said Mr.
Stone. "I did not think you quarrelsome or a bully."

"I hope I am not," said Andy. "Did Godfrey tell you why I knocked him
over?"

"He said it was because he would not associate with you."

Andy laughed.

"I hope you'll excuse my laughing, sir," he said, respectfully; "but
I'd rather associate with any of the boys than with Godfrey. I like
him least of all."

"Then, that is the reason you attacked him, is it?"

"No, sir."

"Then, what was it?"

"If you don't mind, sir, I'd like to have you ask Alfred Parker."

"Alfred Parker," called out the teacher, "come forward."

Alfred obeyed.

"Do you know why Andrew attacked Godfrey Preston?"

"Yes, sir; it was on my account."

"On your account! Explain."

"This morning, before school, I was playing with another boy, and
accidentally ran into Godfrey. He got mad, and threw me over
violently. Then he pressed his knee on my breast till I could hardly
breathe. I begged him to let me up, but he would not, though he knew
that it was only an accident. While I was lying on the ground, Andy
Burke came up. He no sooner saw me than he ran up, and threw Godfrey
off, and got on him in the same manner, and I think he served him
right."

As he uttered these last words, Godfrey scowled ominously, but Andy's
face brightened up. He was glad that Alfred was brave enough to speak
up for him.

"This alters the case considerably," said the teacher. "Is there any
other boy who witnessed the affair, and can substantiate what has been
said? If so, let him raise his hand."

Herman Reynolds raised his hand.

"Well, Herman, what do you know about it? Were you present?"

"Yes, sir, I was. It was just as Alfred said it was."

"What have you to say, Godfrey?" asked Mr. Stone, sternly.

"I don't mean to be insulted by an Irish boy," said Godfrey,
haughtily.

"Remember where you are, sir, and speak in a more becoming manner. Did
you attack Alfred Parker, as he says?"

"He had no business to run into me."

"Answer my question."

"Yes, I did."

"And did you kneel on his breast?"

"Yes."

"Oblige me by saying, 'Yes, sir.'"

"Yes, sir," said Godfrey, reluctantly.

"Why do you complain, then, of being treated in a similar manner by
Andrew?"

"He has no business to touch me."

"If he had not interfered when he saw you maltreating his young
schoolfellow, I should have been ashamed of him," said the teacher.

This so far chimed in with the sentiment of the boys that they almost
involuntarily applauded; and one boy, arising, exclaimed:

"Three cheers for the teacher!"

The three cheers were given with a will, and, though they were,
strictly speaking, out of order, Mr. Stone was a sensible man, and the
only notice he took of it was to say:

"Thank you, boys. I am glad to find that you agree with me on this
point, and that your sympathies are with the weak and oppressed.
Godfrey Preston, your complaint is dismissed. I advise you to cease
acting the part of a bully, or you may get another similar lesson.
Andrew, when you exert your strength, I hope it will always be in as
just a cause. You may take your seat, and you also, Alfred."

The boys would have applauded again, but Mr. Stone said, waving his
hand:

"Once is enough, boys. Time is precious, and we must now go on with
our lessons. First class in arithmetic."

Godfrey had been equally surprised and angry at the turn that affairs
had taken. He was boiling with indignation, and nervously moved about
in his seat. After a slight pause, having apparently taken his
determination, he took his cap, and walked toward the door.

Mr. Stone's attention was drawn to him.

"Where are you going, Godfrey?" he demanded, quickly.

"Home," said Godfrey.

"You will wait till the end of school."

"I would rather not, sir."

"It makes no difference what you would rather do, or rather not do.
Are you sick?"

"No, sir."

"Then you have no good cause for leaving, and I shall not permit you
to do so."

"I have been insulted, sir, and I don't wish to stay."

"By whom?" demanded the teacher, sharply.

Godfrey would like to have said, "By you," but he saw the teacher's
keen eye fixed upon him, and he didn't dare to do it. He hesitated.

"By whom?" repeated Mr. Stone.

"By Andrew Burke."

"That is no good reason for your leaving school, or would not be, if
it were true, but it is not. He has only meted out to you the same
punishment you undertook to inflict upon a smaller boy. Take your
seat."

"My father will take me away from school," said Godfrey, angrily.

"We shall none of us mourn for your absence. Take your seat."

This last remark of the teacher still further incensed Godfrey, and
led him temporarily to forget himself. Though he had been bidden to
take his seat, he resolved to leave the schoolroom, and made a rush
for the door. But Mr. Stone was there before him. He seized Godfrey by
the collar and dragged him, shaking him as he proceeded, to his seat,
on which he placed him with some emphasis.

"That is the way I treat rebels," he said. "You forget yourself,
Preston. The next time you make up your mind to resist my commands,
count in advance on a much severer lesson."

Godfrey was pale with passion, and his hands twitched convulsively. He
only wished he had Mr. Stone in his power for five minutes. He would
treat him worse than he did Alfred Parker. But a boy in a passion is
not a very pleasant spectacle. It is enough to say that Godfrey was
compelled to stay in school for the remainder of the forenoon. As soon
as he could get away, he ran home, determined to enlist his mother in
his cause.




CHAPTER XIV
MR. STONE IS CALLED TO ACCOUNT


At home Godfrey gave a highly colored narrative of the outrageous
manner in which he had been abused, for so he chose to represent it.
He gave this account to his mother, for his father was not at home.
Indeed, he was absent for a day or two in a distant city.

Mrs. Preston was indignant.

"It is an outrage, Godfrey," she said, compressing her thin lips. "How
did Mr. Stone dare to treat you in this way?"

"I was surprised, myself," said Godfrey.

"Had he no more respect for your father's prominent position?"

"It looks as if he didn't."

"He is evidently unfit to keep the school. I shall try to persuade
your father to have him turned away."

"I wish he might be," said Godfrey. "It would teach him to treat me
with proper respect. Anybody would think that Irish boy was the son of
the most important man in town."

Both Godfrey and his mother appeared to take it for granted that a
teacher should treat his pupils according to their social position.
This is certainly very far from proper, as all my youthful readers
will, I hope, agree.

"I don't want to go back to school this afternoon, mother," said
Godfrey.

"I don't wonder," said his mother. "I will tell you what I will do. I
will send a letter to Mr. Stone by you, asking him to call here this
evening. I will then take occasion to express my opinion of his
conduct."

"That's good, mother," said Godfrey, joyfully.

He knew that his mother had a sharp tongue, and he longed to hear his
mother "give it" to the teacher whom he hated.

"Then, you think I had better go to school this afternoon?"

"Yes, with the note. If Mr. Stone does not apologize, you need not go
to-morrow. I will go upstairs and write it at once."

The note was quickly written, and, putting it carefully in his inside
pocket, Godfrey went to school. As he entered the schoolroom he
stepped up to the desk and handed the note to Mr. Stone.

"Here is a note from my mother," he said, superciliously.

"Very well," said the teacher, taking it gravely.

As it was not quite time to summon the pupils, he opened it at once.

This was what he read:


    "MR. STONE: Sir--My son Godfrey informs me that you have
    treated him in a very unjust manner, for which I find it
    impossible to account. I shall be glad if you can find time
    to call at my house this evening, in order that I may hear
    from your lips an explanation of the occurrence. Yours, in
    haste,
                                       "Lucinda Preston."


"Preston," said Mr. Stone, after reading this note, "you may say to
your mother that I will call this evening."

He did not appear in the least disturbed by the contents of the note
he had received from the richest and--in her own eyes--the most
important lady in the village. In fact, he had a large share of
self-respect and independence, and was not likely to submit to
browbeating from anyone. He tried to be just in his treatment of the
scholars under his charge, and if he ever failed, it was from
misunderstanding or ignorance, not from design. In the present
instance he felt that he had done right, and resolved to maintain the
justice of his conduct.

Nothing of importance occurred in the afternoon. Godfrey was very
quiet and orderly. He felt that he could afford to wait. With
malicious joy, he looked forward to the scolding Mr. Stone was to get
from his mother.

"He won't dare to talk to her," he said to himself. "I hope she'll
make him apologize to me. He ought to do it before the school."

Evidently Godfrey had a very inadequate idea of the teacher's pluck,
if he thought such a thing possible.

School was dismissed, and Godfrey went home. He dropped a hint to Ben
Travers, that his mother was going "to haul Mr. Stone over the coals,"
as he expressed it.

"Are you going to be there?" asked Ben, when Godfrey had finished.

"Yes," said Godfrey. "It'll be my turn then."

"Perhaps Mr. Stone will have something to say," said Ben, doubtfully.

"He won't dare to," said Godfrey, confidently. "He knows my father
could get him kicked out of school."

"He's rather spunky, the master is," said Ben, who, toady as he was,
understood the character of Mr. Stone considerably better than Godfrey
did.

"I'll tell you all about it to-morrow morning," said Godfrey.

"All right."

"I expect he'll apologize to me for what he did."

"Maybe he will," answered Ben, but he thought it highly improbable.

"Did you give my note to Mr. Stone?" asked his mother.

"Yes."

"What did he say?"

"He said he'd come around."

"How did he appear?"

"He looked a little nervous," said Godfrey, speaking not according to
facts, but according to his wishes.

"I thought so," said Mrs. Preston, with a look of satisfaction. "He
will find that he has made a mistake in treating you so outrageously."

"Give it to him right and left, mother," said Godfrey, with more force
than elegance.

"You might express yourself more properly, my son," said Mrs. Preston.
"I shall endeavor to impress upon his mind the impropriety of his
conduct."

At half-past seven, Mr. Stone rang the bell at Mrs. Preston's door,
and was ushered in without delay.

"Good-evening, Mrs. Preston," he said, bowing. "Your son brought me a
note this afternoon, requesting me to call. I have complied with your
request."

"Be seated, Mr. Stone," said the lady frigidly, not offering her hand.

"Thank you," said the teacher, with equal ceremony, and did as
invited.

"I suppose you can guess the object of my request," said Mrs. Preston.

"I think you stated it in your note."

"I desire an explanation of the manner in which you treated my son
this forenoon, Mr. Stone."

"Pardon me, madam; your son is in the room."

"Well, sir?"

"I decline discussing the matter before him."

"I cannot understand why you should object to his presence."

"I am his teacher, and he is subject to my authority. You apparently
desire to find fault with the manner in which I have exercised that
authority. It is improper that the discussion upon this point should
take place before him."

"May I stay in the room, mother?" asked Godfrey, who was alarmed lest
he should miss the spectacle of Mr. Stone's humiliation.

"I really don't see why not," returned his mother.

"Madam," said Mr. Stone, rising, "I will bid you good-evening."

"What, sir; before we have spoken on the subject?"

"I distinctly decline to speak before your son, for the reasons
already given."

"This is very singular, sir. However, I will humor your whims.
Godfrey, you may leave the room."

"Can't I stay?"

"I am compelled to send you out."

Godfrey went out, though with a very ill grace.

"Now, madam," said the teacher, "I have no objection to telling you
that I first reprimanded your son for brutal treatment of a younger
schoolmate, and then forcibly carried him back to his seat, when he
endeavored to leave the schoolroom without my permission."

It was Mrs. Preston's turn to be surprised. She had expected to
overawe the teacher, and instead of that found him firmly and
independently defending his course.

"Mr. Stone," she said, "my son tells me that you praised an Irish boy
in your school for a violent and brutal assault which he made upon
him."

"I did not praise him for that. I praised him for promptly interfering
to prevent Godfrey from abusing a boy smaller and younger than
himself."

"Godfrey had good cause for punishing the boy you refer to. He acted
in self-defense."

"He has doubtless misrepresented the affair to you, madam, as he did
to me."

"You take this Andrew Burke's word against his?"

"I form my judgment upon the testimony of an eyewitness, and from what
I know of your son's character."

"From your own statement, this low Irish boy----"

"To whom do you refer, madam?"

"To the Irish boy."

"I have yet to learn that he is low."

"Do you mean to compare him with my son?"

"In wealth, no. Otherwise, you mustn't blame me for saying that I hold
him entirely equal in respectability, and in some important points his
superior."

"Really, sir, your language is most extraordinary."

At this moment there was an interruption. Godfrey had been listening
at the keyhole, but finding that difficult, had opened the door
slightly, but in his interest managed to stumble against it. The door
flew open, and he fell forward upon his knees on the carpet of the
sitting-room.




CHAPTER XV
MRS. PRESTON'S DISCOMFITURE


Godfrey rose to his feet, red with mortification. His mother looked
disconcerted. Mr. Stone said nothing, but glanced significantly from
Godfrey to Mrs. Preston.

"What is the matter, Godfrey?" she asked, rather sharply.

"It was an accident," said Godfrey, rather sheepishly.

"You can go out and shut the door, and take care not to let such an
accident happen again. For some unknown reason, Mr. Stone prefers that
you should not be present, and, therefore, you must go."

For once, Godfrey found nothing to say, but withdrew in silence.

"You appear to have formed a prejudice against Godfrey, Mr. Stone,"
said Mrs. Preston.

"I may have formed an unfavorable judgment of him on some points,"
said the teacher. "I judge of him by his conduct."

"To say that Andrew Burke is his superior is insulting to him and his
family, as well as ludicrous."

"I beg pardon, Mrs. Preston, but I must dissent from both your
statements. Andrew Burke possesses some excellent qualities in which
Godfrey is deficient."

"He is a poor working boy."

"He is none the worse for that."

"He should remember his position, and treat my son with proper
respect."

"I venture to say that Godfrey will receive all the respect to which
he is entitled. May I ask if you expect him to be treated with
deference, because his father is richer than those of the other boys?"

"It seems to me only proper."

"Do you expect me to treat him any better on that account?"

"I think my son's social position should command respect."

"Then, Mrs. Preston, I entirely disagree with you," said Mr. Stone,
firmly. "As a teacher, I have nothing whatever to do with the social
position of the children who come to me as pupils. From me a poor boy
will receive the same instruction, and the same treatment precisely as
the son of rich parents. If he behaves as he should, he will always
find in me a friend, as well as a teacher. Your son Godfrey shall have
no just complaint to make of my treatment. I will give him credit for
good conduct and faithful study, but no more than to Andrew Burke, or
to any other pupil under the same circumstances."

"Mr. Stone, I am surprised at your singular style of talking. You wish
to do away with all social distinctions."

"I certainly do, madam, in my schoolroom, at least. There must be
social differences, I am aware. We cannot all be equally rich or
honored, but whatever may be the world's rule, I mean to maintain
strict impartiality in my schoolroom."

"Will you require Andy Burke to apologize to Godfrey?"

"Why should I?"

"For his violent assault upon him."

"Certainly not. He was justified in his conduct."

"If my son was doing wrong, the Irish boy, instead of interfering,
should have waited till you came, and then reported the matter to
you."

"And, meanwhile, stood by and seen Alfred Parker inhumanly treated?"

"I presume the matter has been greatly exaggerated."

"I do not, madam."

"Do I understand that you decline to make reparation to my son?"

"Reparation for what?"

"For the manner in which he has been treated."

"I must have talked to little purpose, if I have not made it clear
that your son has only received his deserts. Of course, he is entitled
to no reparation, as you term it."

"Then, Mr. Stone," said Mrs. Preston, her thin lips compressed with
indignation, "since Godfrey cannot meet with fair treatment, I shall
be compelled to withdraw him from your school."

"That must be as you please, madam," said the teacher, quite unmoved
by the threatened withdrawal of his richest pupil.

"I shall report to Colonel Preston your treatment of his son."

"I have no objection, madam."

"You are pursuing a very unwise course in alienating your wealthiest
patrons."

"I have no patrons, madam," said Mr. Stone, proudly. "I return
faithful service for the moderate wages I receive, and the obligation,
if there is any, is on the part of those whose children I instruct."

"Really," thought Mrs. Preston, "this man is very independent for a
poor teacher."

She resolved upon another shot, not in the best of taste.

"You must not be surprised, Mr. Stone," she said, "if the school
trustees refuse to employ you again."

"You mistake me utterly," said the teacher, with dignity, "if you
suppose that any such threat or consideration will make me swerve from
my duty. However, though I did not propose to mention it, I will state
that this is the last term I shall teach in this village. I have been
engaged at double the salary in a neighboring city."

Mrs. Preston was disappointed to hear this. It was certainly vexatious
that the man who had treated her son with so little consideration, who
had actually taken the part of a working boy against him, should be
promoted to a better situation. She had thought to make him feel that
he was in her power, but she now saw that her anticipations were not
to be realized.

As she did not speak, Mr. Stone considered the interview closed, and
rose.

"Good-evening, Mrs. Preston," he said.

"Good-evening, sir," she responded, coldly.

He bowed and withdrew.

When Godfrey, who was not far off, though he had not thought it best
to play the part of eavesdropper again, heard the door close, he
hurried into the room.

"Well, mother, what did he say?" he inquired, eagerly.

"He obstinately refused to make any reparation to you."

"Did you tell him what you thought of his treatment of me?" said
Godfrey, rather surprised that his mother's remonstrance had produced
no greater effect.

"Yes, I expressed my opinion very plainly. I must say that he's a very
impudent man. The idea of a poor teacher putting on such airs!"
continued Mrs. Preston, tossing her head.

"What did he say?"

"That that Irish boy was superior to you."

"I'd like to knock him over," said Godfrey, wrathfully.

Mrs. Preston was a lady, and it is not to be supposed that she should
join in her son's wish. Still, it did not occur to her that she should
mourn very much if Mr. Stone met with a reverse. She would like to see
his pride humbled, not reflecting that her own was greater and less
justifiable.

"You ought to have told him that he would lose his school," said
Godfrey. "That would have frightened him, for he is a poor man, and
depends on the money he gets for teaching."

"He is not going to teach here after this term."

"Good! Did he tell you that?"

"Yes."

"He is afraid of me, after all."

"You are mistaken, Godfrey. He is offered considerably higher pay in
another place."

Godfrey's countenance fell. It was as disagreeable to him as to his
mother to learn that Mr. Stone was to be promoted in his profession.

"Shall I have to go to school again, mother?" he asked, after a pause.

"No," said Mrs. Preston, with energy. "Upon that I have determined.
While Mr. Stone is teacher, you shall not go back. I will take care to
let it be known in the neighborhood why I keep you at home. I hope the
next teacher will be a man who understands the respect due to social
position. I don't care to have you put on an equality with such boys
as Andrew Burke. He is no fit associate for you."

"That is what I think, mother," said Godfrey. "The low beggar! I'd
like to come up with him. Perhaps, I shall have a chance some day."

When Colonel Preston returned home, the whole story was told to him;
but, colored though it was, he guessed how matters actually stood, and
was far from becoming his son's partisan. He privately went to Mr.
Stone and obtained his version of the affair.

"You did right, Mr. Stone," he said, at the end. "If my son chooses to
act the bully, he must take the consequences. Mrs. Preston does not
look upon it in the same light, and insists upon my taking Godfrey
from school. For the sake of peace, I must do so, but you must not
construe it as showing any disapproval on my part of your course in
the matter."

"Thank you, Colonel Preston," said the teacher, warmly. "I can only
regret Mrs. Preston's displeasure. Your approval I highly value, and
it will encourage me in the path of duty."




CHAPTER XVI
THE CHRISTMAS PRESENT


Godfrey didn't return to school at all. He fancied that it would be
more aristocratic to go to a boarding school, and, his mother
concurring in this view, he was entered as a scholar at the Melville
Academy, situated in Melville, twelve miles distant. Once a fortnight
he came home to spend the Sunday. On these occasions he flourished
about with a tiny cane, and put on more airs than ever. No one missed
him much, outside of his own family. Andy found the school
considerably more agreeable after his departure.

We will now suppose twelve months to have passed. During this time
Andy has grown considerably, and is now quite a stout boy. He has
improved also in education. The Misses Grant, taking a kind interest
in his progress, managed to spare him half the day in succeeding
terms, so that he continued to attend school. Knowing that he had but
three hours to learn, when the others had six, he was all the more
diligent, and was quite up to the average standard for boys of his
age. The fact is, Andy was an observing boy, and he realized that
education was essential to success in life. Mr. Stone, before going
away, talked with him on this subject and gave him some advice, which
Andy determined to follow.

As may be inferred from what I have said, Andy was still working for
the Misses Grant. He had grown accustomed to their ways, and succeeded
in giving them perfect satisfaction, and accomplished quite as much
work as John, his predecessor, though the latter was a man.

As Christmas approached, Miss Priscilla said one day to her sister:

"Don't you think, Sophia, it would be well to give Andrew a Christmas
present?"

"Just so," returned Sophia, approvingly.

"He has been very faithful and obliging all the time he has been with
us."

"Just so."

"I have been thinking what would be a good thing to give him."

"A pair of spectacles," suggested Sophia, rather absent-mindedly.

"Sophia, you are a goose."

"Just so," acquiesced her sister, meekly.

"Such a gift would be very inappropriate."

"Just so."

"A pair of boots," was the next suggestion.

"That would be better. Boots would be very useful, but I think it
would be well to give him something that would contribute to his
amusement. Of course, we must consult his taste, and not out own. We
are not boys."

"Just so," said Sophia, promptly. "And he is not a lady," she added,
enlarging upon the idea.

"Of course not. Now, the question is, what do boys like?"

"Just so," said Sophia, but this admission did not throw much light
upon the character of the present to be bought.

Just then Andy himself helped them to a decision. He entered, cap in
hand, and said:

"If you can spare me, Miss Grant, I would like to go skating on the
pond."

"Have you a pair of skates, Andrew?"

"No, ma'am," said Andy; "but one of the boys will lend me a pair."

"Yes, Andrew; you can go, if you will be home early."

"Yes, ma'am--thank you."

As he went out, Miss Priscilla said:

"I have it."

"What?" asked Sophia, alarmed.

"I mean that I have found out what to give to Andrew."

"What is it?"

"A pair of skates."

"Just so," said Sophia. "He will like them."

"So I think. Suppose we go to the store while he is away, and buy him
a pair."

"Won't he need to try them on?" asked her sister.

"No," said Priscilla. "They don't need to fit as exactly as boots."

So the two sisters made their way to the village store, and asked to
look at their stock of skates.

"Are you going to skate, Miss Priscilla?" asked the shopkeeper,
jocosely.

"No; they are for Sophia," answered Priscilla, who could joke
occasionally.

"Oh, Priscilla," answered the matter-of-fact Sophia, "you didn't tell
me about that. I am sure I could not skate. You said they were for
Andrew."

"Sophia, you are a goose."

"Just so."

"It was only a joke."

"Just so."

The ladies, who never did things by halves, selected the best pair in
the store, and paid for them. When Andy had returned from skating,
Priscilla said: "How did you like the skating, Andrew?"

"It was bully," said Andrew, enthusiastically.

"Whose skates did you borrow?"

"Alfred Parker's. They were too small for me, but I made them do."

"I should suppose you would like to have a pair of your own."

"So I should, but I can't afford to buy a pair, just yet.

"I'll tell you what I want to do, and maybe you'll help me about
buyin' it."

"What is it, Andrew?"

"You know Christmas is comin', ma'am, and I want to buy my mother a
nice dress for a Christmas present--not a calico one, but a thick one
for winter."

"Alpaca or de laine?"

"I expect so; I don't know the name of what I want, but you do. How
much would it cost?"

"I think you could get a good de laine for fifty cents a yard. I saw
some at the store this afternoon."

"And about how many yards would be wanted, ma'am?"

"About twelve, I should think."

"Then it would be six dollars."

"Just so," said Sophia, who thought it about time she took part in the
conversation.

"I've got the money, ma'am, and I'll give it to you, if you and Miss
Sophia will be kind enough to buy it for me."

"To be sure we will, Andrew," said Priscilla, kindly. "I am glad you
are such a good son."

"Just so, Andrew."

"You see," said Andy, "mother won't buy anything for herself. She
always wants to buy things for Mary and me. She wants us to be
well-dressed, but she goes with the same old clothes. So I want her to
have a new dress."

"You want her to have it at Christmas, then?"

"Yes, ma'am, if it won't be too much trouble."

"That is in two days. To-morrow, Sophia and I will buy the dress."

"Thank you. Here's the money," and Andy counted out six dollars in
bills, of which Miss Priscilla took charge.

The next day they fulfilled their commission, and purchased a fine
dress pattern at the village store. It cost rather more than six
dollars, but this they paid out of their own pockets, and did not
report to Andy. Just after supper, as he was about to go home to spend
Christmas Eve, they placed the bundle in his hands.

"Isn't it beautiful!" he exclaimed, with delight. "Won't mother be
glad to get it?"

"She'll think she has a good son, Andrew."

"Shure, I ought to be good to her, for she's a jewel of a mother."

"That is right, Andrew. I always like to hear a boy speak well of his
mother. It is a great pleasure to a mother to have a good son."

"Shure, ma'am," said Andy, with more kindness of heart than
discretion, "I hope you'll have one yourself."

"Just so," said Sophia, with the forced habit upon her.

"Sophia, you are a goose!" said Priscilla, blushing a little.

"Just so, Priscilla."

"We are too old to marry, Andrew," said Priscilla; "but we thank you
for your wish."

"Shure, ma'am, you are only in the prime of life."

"Just so," said Sophia, brightening up.

"I shall be sixty next spring. That can hardly be in the prime of
life."

"I was readin' of a lady that got married at seventy-nine, ma'am."

"Just so," said Sophia, eagerly.

Miss Priscilla did not care to pursue the subject.

"We have thought of you," she continued, "and, as you have been very
obliging, we have bought you a Christmas present. Here it is."

Andy no sooner saw the skates than his face brightened up with the
most evident satisfaction.

"It's just what I wanted," he said, joyfully. "They're regular
beauties! I'm ever so much obliged to you."

"Sophia wanted to get you a pair of spectacles, but I thought these
would suit you better."

Andy went off into a fit of laughter at the idea, in which both the
ladies joined him. Then, after thanking them again, he hurried home,
hardly knowing which gave him greater pleasure, his own present, or
his mother's.

I will not stop to describe Andy's Christmas, for this is only a
retrospect, but carry my reader forward to the next September, when
Andy met with an adventure, which eventually had a considerable effect
upon his fortunes.




CHAPTER XVII
INTRODUCES AN ADVENTURER


Colonel Preston, as I have already said, was a rich man. He owned no
real estate in the town of Crampton, except the house in which he
lived. His property was chiefly in stocks of different kinds. Included
in these was a considerable amount of stock in a woolen manufacturing
establishment, situated in Melville, some twelve miles distant.
Dividends upon these were paid semi-annually, on the first of April
and October. It was the custom of Colonel Preston at these dates to
drive over to Melville, receive his dividends, and then drive back
again.

Now, unfortunately for the welfare of the community, there are some
persons who, unwilling to make a living by honest industry, prefer to
possess themselves unlawfully of means to maintain their unprofitable
lives. Among them was a certain black-whiskered individual, who,
finding himself too well known in New York, had sought the country,
ready for any stroke of business which might offer in his particular
line. Chance led his steps to Melville, where he put up at the village
inn. He began at once to institute inquiries, the answers to which
might serve his purpose, and to avert suspicion, casually mentioned
that he was a capitalist, and thought of settling down in the town. As
he was well dressed, and had a plausible manner, this statement was
not doubted.

Among other things, he made inquiries in regard to the manufactory,
what dividends it paid, and when. Expressing himself desirous of
purchasing some stock, he inquired the names of the principal owners
of the stock. First among them was mentioned Colonel Preston.

"Perhaps he might sell some stocks," suggested the landlord.

"Where can I see him?" asked James Fairfax, for this was the name
assumed by the adventurer.

"You can see him here," answered the landlord, "in a day or two. He
will be here the first of the month to receive his dividends."

"Will he stop with you?"

"Probably. He generally dines with me when he comes over."

"Will you introduce me?"

"With pleasure."

Mr. Fairfax appeared to hear this with satisfaction, and said that he
would make Colonel Preston an offer for a part of his stock.

"Most of my property is invested in real estate in New York," he said;
"but I should like to have some manufacturing stock; and, from what
you tell me, I think favorably of the Melville Mills."

"We should be glad to have you settle down among us," said the
landlord.

"I shall probably do so," said Fairfax. "I am very much pleased with
your town and people."

In due time Colonel Preston drove over. As usual, he put up at the
hotel.

"Colonel," said the landlord, "there's a gentleman stopping with me
who desires an introduction to you."

"Indeed! What is his name?"

"James Fairfax."

"Is he from this neighborhood?"

"No; from the city of New York."

"I shall be happy to make his acquaintance," said the colonel,
courteously; "but it must be after I return from the mills. I shall be
there a couple of hours, probably. We are to have a directorial
meeting."

"I will tell him."

Colonel Preston attended the directors' meeting, and also collected
his dividend, amounting to eight hundred dollars. These, in eight
one-hundred-dollar bills, he put in his pocketbook, and returned to
the hotel for dinner.

"Dinner is not quite ready, colonel," said the landlord. "It will be
ready in fifteen minutes."

"Where is the gentleman who wished to be introduced to me?" asked
Colonel Preston, who thought it would save time to be introduced now.

"I will speak to him."

He went directly to a dark-complexioned man with black whiskers, and
eyes that were rather sinister in appearance. The eyes oftenest betray
the real character of a man, where all other signs fail. But Colonel
Preston was not a keen observer, nor was he skilled in physiognomy,
and, judging of Mr. Fairfax by his manner merely, was rather pleased
with him.

"You will pardon my obtruding myself upon you, Colonel Preston," said
the stranger, with great ease of manner.

"I am happy to make your acquaintance, sir."

"I am a stranger in this neighborhood. The city of New York is my
home. I have been led here by the recommendations of friends who knew
that I desired to locate myself in the country."

"How do you like Melville?"

"Very much--so much, that I may settle down here. But, Colonel
Preston, I am a man of business, and if I am to be here, I want some
local interest--some stake in the town itself."

"Quite natural, sir."

"You are a business man yourself, and will understand me. Now, to come
to the point, I find you have a manufactory here--a woolen
manufactory, which I am given to understand is prosperous and
profitable."

"You are correctly informed, Mr. Fairfax. It is paying twelve per
cent. dividends, and has done so for several years."

"That is excellent. It is a better rate than I get for most of my city
investments."

"I also have city investments--bank stocks, and horse-railroad stocks,
but, as you say, my mill stock pays me better than the majority of
these."

"You are a large owner of the mill stock; are you not, Colonel
Preston?"

"Yes, sir; the largest, I believe."

"So I am informed. Would you be willing to part with any of