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.