ONLY AN IRISH BOY

Or, Andy Burke's Fortunes

by Horatio Alger, Jr.

CONTENTS

ONLY AN IRISH BOY

CHAPTER I — ANDY BURKE

CHAPTER II — A SKIRMISH

CHAPTER III — ANDY AND HIS MOTHER

CHAPTER IV — MRS. PRESTON

CHAPTER V — A PROFITABLE JOB

CHAPTER VI — THE TWO OLD MAIDS

CHAPTER VII — ANDY OBTAINS A PLACE

CHAPTER VIII — THE MIDNIGHT ALARM

CHAPTER IX — WHAT FOLLOWED

CHAPTER X — ANDY'S DEBUT AT SCHOOL

CHAPTER XI — A GAME OF BALL

CHAPTER XII — A LITTLE DIFFICULTY

CHAPTER XIII — GODFREY'S REBELLION

CHAPTER XIV — MR. STONE IS CALLED TO
ACCOUNT

CHAPTER XV — MRS. PRESTON'S DISCOMFITURE

CHAPTER XVI — THE CHRISTMAS PRESENT

CHAPTER XVII — INTRODUCES AN ADVENTURER

CHAPTER XVIII — RIDING WITH A HIGHWAYMAN

CHAPTER XIX — BAFFLED A ROBBER

CHAPTER XX — HOW THE NEWS WAS RECEIVED

CHAPTER XXI — A MODEL WIFE

CHAPTER XXII — COLONEL PRESTON'S RECOVERY

CHAPTER XXIII — MRS. BURKE HAS GOOD FORTUNE

CHAPTER XXIV — ANDY'S JOURNEY

CHAPTER XXV — THE MERCHANT FROM PORTLAND

CHAPTER XXVI — SPINNING THE WEB

CHAPTER XXVII — THE DROP GAME

CHAPTER XXVIII — THE GUEST OF TWO HOTELS

CHAPTER XXIX — A STARTLING EVENT

CHAPTER XXX — COLONEL PRESTON'S WILL

CHAPTER XXXI — MRS. PRESTON'S INTENTIONS

CHAPTER XXXII — MRS. PRESTON'S REVENGE

CHAPTER XXXIII — ANDY LOSES HIS PLACE

CHAPTER XXXIV — THE WILL AT LAST

CHAPTER XXXV — MRS. PRESTON IS UNPLEASANTLY
SURPRISED

CHAPTER 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 it?"

"I have never thought of doing so. I am afraid I could not replace it with
any other that would be satisfactory."

"I don't blame you, of course, but it occurred to me that, having a
considerable amount, you might be willing to sell."

"I generally hold on to good stock when I get possession of it. Indeed, I
would buy more, if there were any in the market."

"He must have surplus funds," thought the adventurer. "I must see if I
can't manage to get some into my possession."

Here the landlord appeared, and announced that dinner was ready.

"You dine here, then?" said Fairfax.

"Yes; it will take me two hours to reach home, so I am obliged to dine
here."

"We shall dine together, it seems. I am glad of it, as at present I happen
to be the only permanent guest at the hotel. May I ask where you live?"

"In Crampton."

"I have heard favorably of it, and have been intending to come over and
see the place, but the fact is, I am used only to the city, and your
country roads are so blind, that I have been afraid of losing my way."

"Won't you ride over with me this afternoon, Mr. Fairfax? I can't bring
you back, but you are quite welcome to a seat in my chaise one way."

The eyes of the adventurer sparkled at the invitation. Colonel Preston had
fallen into the trap he had laid for him, but he thought it best not to
accept too eagerly.

"You are certainly very kind, Colonel Preston," he answered, with affected
hesitation, "but I am afraid I shall be troubling you too much."

"No trouble whatever," said Colonel Preston, heartily. "It is a lonely
ride, and I shall be glad of a companion."

"A lonely ride, is it?" thought Fairfax. "All the better for my purpose.
It shall not be my fault if I do not come back with my pockets well lined.
The dividends you have just collected will be better in my pockets than in
yours."

This was what he thought, but he said:

"Then I will accept with pleasure. I suppose I can easily engage someone
to bring me back to Melville?"

"Oh, yes; we have a livery stable, where you can easily obtain a horse and
driver."

The dinner proceeded, and Fairfax made himself unusually social and
agreeable, so that Colonel Preston congratulated himself on the prospect
of beguiling the loneliness of the way in such pleasant company. Fairfax
spoke of stocks with such apparent knowledge that the colonel imagined him
to be a gentleman of large property. It is not surprising that he was
deceived, for the adventurer really understood the subject of which he
spoke, having been for several years a clerk in a broker's counting-room
in Wall Street. The loss of his situation was occasioned by his
abstraction of some securities, part of which he had disposed of before he
was detected. He was, in consequence, tried and sentenced to three years'
imprisonment. At the end of this period he was released, with no further
taste for an honest life, and had since allied himself to the class who
thrive by preying upon the community.

This was the man whom Colonel Preston proposed to take as his companion on
his otherwise lonely ride home.

CHAPTER XVIII — RIDING WITH A HIGHWAYMAN

"Get into the chaise, Mr. Fairfax," said Colonel Preston.

"Thank you," said the adventurer, and accepted the invitation.

"Now we are off," said the colonel, as he took the reins, and touched the
horse lightly with the whip.

"Is the road a pleasant one?" inquired Fairfax.

"The latter part is rather lonely. For a mile it runs through the woods—still,
on a summer day, that is rather pleasant than otherwise. In the evening,
it is not so agreeable."

"No, I suppose not," said Fairfax, rather absently.

Colonel Preston would have been startled could he have read the thoughts
that were passing through the mind of his companion. Could he have known
his sinister designs, he would scarcely have sat at his side, chatting so
easily and indifferently.

"I will postpone my plan till we get to that part of the road he speaks
of," thought Fairfax. "It would not do for me to be interrupted."

"I suppose it is quite safe traveling anywhere on the road," remarked the
adventurer.

"Oh, yes," said Colonel Preston, with a laugh. "Thieves and highway
robbers do not pay us the compliment of visiting our neighborhood. They
keep in the large cities, or in places that will better reward their
efforts."

"Precisely," said Fairfax; "I am glad to hear it, for I carry a
considerable amount of money about me."

"So do I, to-day. This is the day for payment of mill dividends, and as I
have occasion to use the money, I did not deposit it."

"Good," said Fairfax, to himself. "That is what I wanted to find out."

Aloud he said:

"Oh, well, there are two of us, so it would be a bold highwayman that
would venture to attack us. Do you carry a pistol?"

"Not I," said Colonel Preston. "I don't like the idea of carrying firearms
about with me. They might go off by mistake. I was reading in a daily
paper, recently, of a case where a man accidentally shot his son with the
pistol he was in the habit of carrying about with him."

"There is that disadvantage, to be sure," said Fairfax. "So, he has no
pistol. He is quite in my power," he said to himself. "It's a good thing
to know."

"By the way," he asked, merely to keep up the conversation, "are you a
family man, Colonel Preston?"

"Yes, sir; I have a wife, and a son of fifteen."

"You have the advantage of me in that respect. I have always been devoted
to business, and have had no time for matrimony."

"Time enough yet, Mr. Fairfax."

"Oh, yes, I suppose so."

"If you are going to settle down in our neighborhood, I can introduce you
to some of our marriageable young ladies," said Colonel Preston,
pleasantly.

"Thank you," said Fairfax; in the same tone. "I may avail myself of your
offer."

"Won't you take supper at my home this evening?" said the colonel,
hospitably. "I shall be glad to introduce Mrs. Preston. My son is at
boarding school, so I shall not be able to let you see him."

"Have you but one child, then?"

"But one. His absence leaves us alone."

Godfrey's absence would have been lamented more by his father, had his
character and disposition been different. But he was so arrogant and
overbearing in his manners, and so selfish, that his father hoped that
association with other boys would cure him in part of these objectionable
traits. At home, he was so much indulged by his mother, who could see no
fault in him, as long as he did not oppose her, that there was little
chance of amendment.

So they rode on, conversing on various topics, but their conversation was
not of sufficient importance for me to report. At length they entered on a
portion of the road lined on either side by a natural forest. Fairfax
looked about him.

"I suppose, Colonel Preston, these are the woods you referred to?"

"Yes, sir."

"How far do they extend?"

"About a mile."

They had traversed about half a mile, when Fairfax said:

"If you don't object, Colonel Preston, I will step out a moment. There's a
tree with a peculiar leaf. I would like to examine it nearer to."

"Certainly, Mr. Fairfax," said the colonel, though he wondered what tree
it could be, for he saw no tree of an unusual character.

The chaise stopped and Fairfax jumped off. But he seemed to have forgotten
the object of dismounting. Instead of examining the foliage of a tree, he
stepped to the horse's head, and seized him by the bridle.

"What are you going to do, Mr. Fairfax?" asked Colonel Preston, in
surprise.

By this time Fairfax had withdrawn a pistol from his inside pocket, and
deliberately pointed it at his companion.

"Good heavens! Mr. Fairfax, what do you mean?"

"Colonel Preston," said the adventurer, "I want all the money you have
about you. I know you have a considerable sum, for you have yourself
acknowledged it."

"Why," exclaimed Colonel Preston, startled, "this is highway robbery."

"Precisely!" said Fairfax, bowing mockingly. "You have had the honor of
riding with a highwayman. Will you be good enough to give me the money at
once? I am in haste."

"Surely, this is a joke, Mr. Fairfax. I have heard of such practical jokes
before. You are testing my courage. I am not in the least frightened. Jump
in the chaise again, and we will proceed."

"That's a very kind way of putting it," said Fairfax, coolly; "but not
correct. I am no counterfeit, but the genuine article. Fairfax is not my
name. I won't tell you what it is, for it might be inconvenient."

No man can look with equanimity upon the prospect of losing money, and
Colonel Preston may be excused for not wishing to part with his eight
hundred dollars. But how could he escape? He had no pistol, and Fairfax
held the horse's bridle in a strong grasp. If he could only parley with
him till some carriage should come up, he might save his money. It seemed
the only way, and he resolved to try it.

"Mr. Fairfax," he said, "if you are really what you represent, I hope you
will consider the natural end of such a career. Turn, I entreat you, to a
more honest course of life."

"That may come some time," said Fairfax; "but at present my necessities
are too great. Oblige me by producing your pocketbook."

"I will give you one hundred dollars, and keep the matter a secret from
all. That will be better than to expose yourself to the penalty of the
law."

"Colonel Preston, a hundred dollars will not satisfy me. You have eight
hundred dollars with you, and I shall not leave this spot till it is
transferred to my possession."

"If I refuse?"

"You will subject me to the unpleasant alternative of blowing your brains
out," said the other, coolly.

"You surely would not be guilty of such a crime, Mr. Fairfax?" said
Colonel Preston, with a shudder.

"I would rather not. I have no desire to take your life, but I must have
that money. If you prefer to keep your money, you will compel me to the
act. You'll gain nothing, for in that case I shall take both—your
life first, and your money afterward."

"And this is the man with whom I dined, and with whom, a few moments
since, I was conversing freely!" thought Colonel Preston.

The adventurer became impatient.

"Colonel Preston," he said, abruptly, "produce that money instantly, or I
will fire."

There was no alternative. With reluctant hand the colonel drew out his
pocketbook, and was about to hand it with its contents to the highwayman,
when there was a sudden crash in the bushes behind Fairfax, his pistol was
dashed from his hand, and our young hero, Andy Burke, with resolute face,
stood with his gun leveled at him. All happened so quickly that both
Colonel Preston and Fairfax were taken by surprise, and the latter, still
retaining his hold upon the bridle, stared at the young hero, who had so
intrepidly come between him and his intended victim.

With an oath he stopped, and was about to pick up the pistol which had
fallen from his hands, but was arrested by the quick, decisive tones of
Andy:

"Let that pistol alone! If you pick it up, I will shoot you on the spot."

CHAPTER XIX — BAFFLED A ROBBER

Fairfax paused at Andy's threat. He was only a boy, it is true, but he
looked cool and resolute, and the gun, which was pointed at him, looked
positively dangerous. But was he to be thwarted in the very moment of his
triumph, by a boy? He could not endure it.

"Young man," he said, "this is dangerous business for you. If you don't
make yourself scarce, you won't be likely to return at all."

"I'll take the risk," said Andy, coolly.

"Confound him! I thought he'd be frightened," said Fairfax to himself.

"I don't want to kill you," he said, with a further attempt to intimidate
Andy.

"I don't mean to let you," said our hero, quietly.

"You are no match for me."

"With a gun I am."

"I don't believe it is loaded."

"If you try to pick up that pistol, I'll convince you; by the powers, I
will," said Andy, energetically.

"What is to prevent my taking away the gun from you?"

"Faith," returned Andy, quaintly, "you'll take the powder and ball first,
I'm thinkin'."

Fairfax thought so, too, and that was one reason why he concluded not to
try it.

It was certainly a provoking position for him.

There lay the pistol on the ground, just at his feet; yet, if he tried to
pick it up, the boy would put a bullet through him. It was furthermore
provoking to reflect that, had he not stopped to parley with Colonel
Preston, he might have secured the money, which he so much desired, before
Andy had come up. There was one other resource. He had tried bullying, and
without success. He would try cajoling and temptation.

"Look here, boy," he said, "I am a desperate man. I would as leave murder
you as not."

"Thank you," said Andy. "But I'd rather not have it done."

"I don't want to hurt you, as I said before, but you mustn't interfere
with me."

"Then you mustn't interfere with the colonel."

"I must have the money in his pocketbook."

"Must you? Maybe, I'll have something to say, to that."

"He has eight hundred dollars with him."

"Did he tell you?"

"No matter; I know. If you won't interfere with me, I'll give you two
hundred of it."

"Thank you for nothing, then," said Andy, independently. "I'm only a poor
Irish boy, but I ain't a thafe, and never mane to be."

"Bravo, Andy!" said Colonel Preston, who had awaited with a little anxiety
the result of the offer.

Fairfax stooped suddenly, but before he could get hold of the pistol, Andy
struck him on the head with the gun-barrel, causing him to roll over,
while, in a quick and adroit movement, he himself got hold of the pistol
before Fairfax had recovered from the crack on his head.

"Now," said Andy, triumphantly, with the gun over his shoulder, and
presenting the pistol, "lave here mighty quick, or I'll shoot ye."

"Give me back the pistol, then," said the discomfited ruffian.

"I guess not," said Andy.

"It's my property."

"I don't know that. Maybe you took it from some thraveler."

"Give it to me, and I'll go off peaceably."

"I won't take no robber's word," said Andy. "Are you goin'?"

"Give me the pistol. Fire it off, if you like."

"That you may load it again. You don't catch a weasel asleep," answered
Andy, shrewdly. "I've a great mind to make you march into the village, and
give you up to the perlice."

This suggestion was by no means pleasant for the highwayman, particularly
as he reflected that Andy had shown himself a resolute boy, and doubly
armed as he now was, it was quite within his power to carry out his
threat.

"Don't fire after me," he said.

"I never attack an inimy in the rare," said Andy, who always indulged in
the brogue more than usual under exciting circumstances.

I make this explanation, as the reader may have noticed a difference in
his dialect at different times.

"We shall meet again, boy!" said Fairfax, menacingly, turning at the
distance of a few feet.

"Thank you, sir. You needn't thrubble yourself," said Andy, "I ain't
anxious to mate you."

"When we do meet, you'll know it," said the other.

"Maybe I will. Go along wid ye!" said Andy, pointing the pistol at him.

"Don't shoot," said Fairfax, hastily, and he quickened his pace to get out
of the way of a dangerous companion.

Andy laughed as the highwayman disappeared in the distance.

"I thought he wouldn't wait long," he said.

"Andy," said Colonel Preston, warmly, "you have behaved like a hero."

"I'm only an Irish boy," said Andy, laughing. "Shure, they don't make
heroes of such as I."

"I don't care whether you are Irish or Dutch. You are a hero for all
that."

"Shure, sir, it's lucky I was round whin that spalpeen wanted to rob you."

"How did you happen to be out with a gun this afternoon?"

"I got my work all done, and Miss Grant said I might go out shootin' if I
wanted. Shure, I didn't expect it 'ud been robbers I would be afther
shootin'."

"You came up just in the nick of time. Weren't you afraid?"

"I didn't stop to think of that when I saw that big blackguard p'intin'
his pistol at you. I thought I'd have a hand in it myself."

"Jump into the chaise, Andy, and ride home with me."

"What, wid the gun?"

"To be sure. We won't leave the gun. That has done us too good service
already to-day."

"I've made something out of it, anyway," said Andy, displaying the pistol,
which was silver-mounted, and altogether a very pretty weapon. "It's a
regular beauty," he said, with admiration.

"It will be better in your hands than in the real owner's," said Colonel
Preston.

By this time Andy was in the chaise, rapidly nearing the village.

"If you hadn't come up just as you did, Andy, I should have been poorer by
eight hundred dollars."

"That's a big pile of money," said Andy, who, as we know, was not in the
habit of having large sums of money in his own possession.

"It is considerably more than I would like to lose," said Colonel Preston,
to whom it was of less importance than to Andy.

"I wonder will I ever have so much money?" thought Andy.

"Now, I'll tell you what I think it only right to do, Andy," pursued the
colonel.

Andy listened attentively.

"I am going to make you a present of some money, as an acknowledgment of
the service you have done me."

"I don't want anything, Colonel Preston," said Andy. "I didn't help you
for the money."

"I know you didn't, my lad," said the colonel, "but I mean to give it to
you all the same."

He took out his pocketbook, but Andy made one more remonstrance.

"I don't think I ought to take it, sir, thankin' you all the same."

"Then I will give you one hundred dollars for your mother. You can't
refuse it for her."

Andy's eyes danced with delight. He knew how much good this money would do
his mother, and relieve her from the necessity of working so hard as she
was now compelled to do.

"Thank you, sir," he said. "It'll make my mother's heart glad, and save
her from the hard work."

"Here is the money, Andy," said the colonel, handing his young companion a
roll of bills.

Again Andy poured out warm protestations of gratitude for the munificent
gift, with which Colonel Preston was well pleased.

"I believe you are a good boy, Andy," he said. "It is a good sign when a
boy thinks so much of his mother."

"I'd be ashamed not to, sir," said Andy.

They soon reached the village. Andy got down at the Misses Grant's gate,
and was soon astonishing the simple ladies by a narrative of his encounter
with the highwayman.

"Do you think he'll come here?" asked Sophia, in alarm. "If he should come
when Andy was away——"

"You could fire the gun yourself, Sophia."

"I should be frightened to death."

"Then he couldn't kill you afterward."

"Just so," answered Sophia, a little bewildered.

"Were you shot, Andrew?" she asked, a minute afterward.

"If I was, I didn't feel it," said Andy, jocosely.

Andy's heroic achievement made him still more valued by the Misses Grant,
and they rejoiced in the handsome gift he had received from the colonel,
and readily gave him permission to carry it to his mother after supper.

CHAPTER XX — HOW THE NEWS WAS RECEIVED

It is always pleasant to carry good news, and Andy hastened with joyful
feet to his mother's humble dwelling.

"Why, Andy, you're out of breath. What's happened?" asked Mrs. Burke.

"I was afraid of bein' robbed," said Andy.

"The robber wouldn't get much that would steal from you, Andy."

"I don't know that, mother. I ain't so poor as you think. Look there,
now!"

Here he displayed the roll of bills. There were twenty fives, which made
quite a thick roll.

"Where did you get so much, Andy?" asked his sister Mary.

"How much is it?" asked his mother.

"A hundred dollars," answered Andy, proudly.

"A hundred dollars!" repeated his mother, with apprehension. "Oh, Andy, I
hope you haven't been stealing?"

"Did you ever know me to stale, mother?" said Andy.

"No, but I thought you might be tempted. Whose money is it?"