Though Andy's regular business was "whipper-in," yet he was liable to be called on for the performance of various other duties: he sometimes attended at table when the number of guests required that all the subs should be put in requisition, or rode on some distant errand for the "mistress," or drove out the nurse and children on the jaunting-car; and many were the mistakes, delays, or accidents, arising from Handy Andy's interference in such matters;--but as they were seldom serious, and generally laughable, they never cost him the loss of his place, or the squire's favour, who rather enjoyed Andy's blunders. The first time Andy was admitted into the mysteries of the dining-room, great was his wonder. The butler took him in to give him some previous instructions, and Andy was so lost in admiration at the sight of the assembled glass and plate, that he stood with his mouth and eyes wide open, and scarcely heard a word that was said to him. After the head man had been dinning his instructions into him for some time, he said he might go, until his attendance was required. But Andy moved not; he stood with his eyes fixed by a sort of fascination on some object that seemed to rivet them with the same unaccountable influence which the rattlesnake exercises over its victim. "What are you looking at?" said the butler. "Them things, sir," said Andy, pointing to some silver forks. "Is it the forks?" said the butler. "Oh, no, sir! I know what forks is very well; but I never seen them things afore." "What things do you mean?" "These things, sir," said Andy, taking up one of the silver forks, and turning it round and round in his hand in utter astonishment, while the butler grinned at his ignorance, and enjoyed his own superior knowledge. "Well!" said Andy, after a long pause, "the devil be from me if ever I seen a silver spoon split that way before!" The butler gave a horse laugh, and made a standing joke of Andy's split spoon; but time and experience made Andy less impressed with wonder at the show of plate and glass, and the split spoons became familiar as "household words" to him; yet still there were things in the duties of table attendance beyond Andy's comprehension--he used to hand cold plates for fish, and hot plates for jelly, &c. But "one day," as Zanga says--"one day" he was thrown off his centre in a remarkable degree by a bottle of soda-water. It was when that combustible was first introduced into Ireland as a dinner beverage that the occurrence took place, and Andy had the luck to be the person to whom a gentleman applied for some soda-water. "Sir?" said Andy. "Soda-water," said the guest, in that subdued tone in which people are apt to name their wants at a dinner-table. Andy went to the butler. "Mr. Morgan, there's a gintleman----" "Let me alone, will you?" said Mr. Morgan. Andy manoeuvred round him a little longer, and again essayed to be heard. "Mr. Morgan!"