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