Book: Only An Irish Boy

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

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




CONTENTS

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





ONLY AN IRISH BOY




CHAPTER I
ANDY BURKE


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

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

John looked up and answered, respectfully:

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The colonel would blame me," objected John.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What are you but a beggar?"

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

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

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

"What's your name?"

"Andy Burke. What's yours?"

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

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

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

"And who are you?"

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

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

"Fellow, you are becoming impertinent."

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

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

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

"Why? What makes you say so?"

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

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

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

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

"Why didn't you come with her?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, I won't."

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

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




CHAPTER II
A SKIRMISH


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

Godfrey paused an instant before him.

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

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

"You're an impudent young ruffian."

"So are you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He said I was no gentleman."

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

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

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

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

"Why do you call him low?"

"Because he's only an Irish boy."

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

"He's a beggar."

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

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

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

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

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

"Andy Burke."

"Do you live here?"

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

"Where does she live?"

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

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

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

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

"Did you do that, Godfrey?"

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

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

"It was about all."

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

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

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

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

"Why not?"

"I don't want to see you."

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

"This is my house."

"I thought it was your father's."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's three months."

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

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

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

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

"I guess you can manage him."

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




CHAPTER III
ANDY AND HIS MOTHER


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

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

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

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

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

"So do I, mother."

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

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

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

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

"Yes, my dear."

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

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

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

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

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

"What makes you say so, mother?"

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

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

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

There was a simultaneous scream from Mary and her mother.

"Is it you, Andy?" exclaimed Mary.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Andy laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Not a bit, mother."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, mother," said Andy.

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

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

"What's his name?"

"I heard his father call him Godfrey."

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

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

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

"He began it."

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

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

"I hope you didn't hurt him?"

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

"And what did his father say?"

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

"Yes, Colonel Preston is a gentleman."

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, Andy."

"What is it you do?"

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

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

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

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

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

She took up the shirt and resumed her sewing.

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

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

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




CHAPTER IV
MRS. PRESTON


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

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