Only an Irish Boy; Or, Andy Burke's FortunesAlger, Horatio, Jr.
General
Only an Irish Boy; Or, Andy Burke's Fortunes
Alger, Horatio, Jr.
Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction; Inheritance and succession -- Juvenile fiction; Irish Americans -- Juvenile fiction
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."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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