Only an Irish Boy Andy Burke's Fortunes

CHAPTER XII A LITTLE DIFFICULTY

It has al­ready been said that God­frey Pre­ston was a con­ceit­ed and ar­ro­gant boy. He had a very high idea of his own im­por­tance, and ex­pect­ed that oth­ers would ac­knowl­edge it; but he was not al­to­geth­er suc­cess­ful. He would like to have had Andy Burke look up to him as a mem­ber of a su­pe­ri­or class, and in that case might have con­de­scend­ed to pa­tron­ize him, as a chief­tain might in the case of a hum­ble re­tain­er. But Andy didn't want to be pa­tron­ized by God­frey. He nev­er showed by his man­ner that he felt be­neath him so­cial­ly, and this great­ly vexed God­frey.

“His moth­er used to iron at our house,” he said to Ben Travers one day; “but my moth­er dis­charged her. I don't see why the boys treat him as an equal. I won't, for my part.”

“Of course, he isn't your equal,” said the sub­servient Ben. “That's a good joke.”

“He acts as if he was,” said God­frey, dis­con­tent­ed­ly.

“It's on­ly his im­pu­dence.”

“You are right,” said God­frey, rather lik­ing this ex­pla­na­tion. “He is one of the most im­pu­dent boys I know. I wish my fa­ther would send me to a fash­ion­able school, where I shouldn't meet such fel­lows. That's the worst of these pub­lic schools--you meet all sorts of per­sons in them.”

“Of course you do.”

“I sup­pose this Burke will be a hod-​car­ri­er, or some­thing of that kind, when he is a man.”

“While you are a mem­ber of Congress.”

“Very like­ly,” said God­frey, lofti­ly; “and he will claim that he was an old school­mate of mine. It is dis­gust­ing.”

“Of course it is. How­ev­er, we needn't no­tice him.”

“I don't mean to.”

But in the course of the next week there was an oc­cur­rence which com­pelled God­frey to “no­tice” his de­test­ed schoolfel­low.

Among the schol­ars was a very pleas­ant boy of twelve, named Al­fred Park­er. He was the son of a poor wid­ow, and was uni­ver­sal­ly liked for his ami­able and oblig­ing dis­po­si­tion. One morn­ing, be­fore school, he was en­gaged in some game which re­quired him to run. He ac­ci­den­tal­ly ran against God­frey, who was just com­ing up the hill, with con­sid­er­able force. Now, it was very ev­ident that it was whol­ly un­in­ten­tion­al; but God­frey was great­ly in­censed.

“What do you mean by that, you lit­tle scamp?” he ex­claimed, fu­ri­ous­ly.

“Ex­cuse me, God­frey; I didn't mean to run in­to you.”

“That don't go down.”

“In­deed, I didn't. I didn't see you.”

“I can't help it. You ought to have been more care­ful. Take that, to make you more care­ful.”

As he said this, he seized him by the col­lar, and, trip­ping him, laid him flat on his back.

“For shame, God­frey!” said an­oth­er boy stand­ing by; but as it was a small boy, God­frey on­ly an­swered:

“If you say that again, I'll serve you the same way.”

Al­fred tried to get up, but God­frey put his knee on his breast.

“Let me up, God­frey,” said Al­fred, piteous­ly. “I can't breathe. You hurt me.”

“I'll teach you to run in­to me,” said the bul­ly.

“I didn't mean to.”

“I want to make sure of your not do­ing it again.”

“Do let me up,” said Al­fred.

In re­turn, God­frey on­ly pressed more heav­ily, and the lit­tle fel­low be­gan to cry. But help was near at hand. Andy Burke hap­pened to come up the hill just then, and saw what was go­ing on. He had a nat­ural chival­ry that prompt­ed him al­ways to take the weak­er side. But be­sides this, he liked Al­fred for his good qual­ities, and dis­liked God­frey for his bad ones. He did not hes­itate a mo­ment, there­fore, but ran up, and, seiz­ing God­frey by the col­lar with a pow­er­ful grasp, jerked him on his back in the twin­kling of an eye. Then, com­plete­ly turn­ing the ta­bles, he put his knee on God­frey's breast, and said:

“Now, you know how it is your­self. How do you like it?”

“Let me up,” de­mand­ed God­frey, fu­ri­ous­ly.

“That's what Al­fred asked you to do,” said Andy, cool­ly. “Why didn't you do it?”

“Be­cause I didn't choose,” an­swered the pros­trate boy, al­most foam­ing at the mouth with rage and hu­mil­ia­tion.

“Then I don't choose to let you up.”

“You shall suf­fer for this,” said God­frey, strug­gling, but in vain.

“Not from your hands. Oh, you needn't try so hard to get up. I can hold you here all day if I choose.”

“You're a low Irish boy!”

“You're low­er than I am just now,” said Andy.

“Let me up.”

“Why didn't you let Al­fred up?”

“He ran against me.”

“Did he mean to?”

“No, I didn't, Andy,” said Al­fred, who was stand­ing near. “I told God­frey so, but he threw me over, and pressed on my breast so hard that it hurt me.”

“In this way,” said Andy, in­creas­ing the pres­sure on his pros­trate en­emy.

God­frey re­newed his strug­gles, but in vain.

“Please let him up now, Andy,” said Al­fred, gen­er­ous­ly.

“If he'll promise not to touch you any more, I will.”

“I won't promise,” said God­frey. “I won't promise any­thing to a low beg­gar.”

“Then you must feel the low beg­gar's knee,” said Andy.

“You wouldn't have got me down if I had been look­ing. You got the ad­van­tage of me.”

“Did I? Well, then, I'll give you a chance.”

Andy rose to his feet, and God­frey, re­lieved from the pres­sure, arose, too. No soon­er was he up than he flew like an en­raged tiger at our hero, but Andy was quite his equal in strength, and, be­ing cool, had the ad­van­tage.

The re­sult was that in a few sec­onds he found him­self once more on his back.

“You see,” said Andy, “it isn't safe for you to at­tack me. I won't keep you down any longer, but if you touch Al­fred again, I'll give you some­thing worse.”

God­frey arose from the ground, and shook his fist at Andy.

“I'll make you re­mem­ber this,” he said.

“I want you to re­mem­ber it your­self,” said Andy.

God­frey didn't an­swer, but made his way to the school­room, sul­len­ly.

“Thank you, Andy,” said Al­fred, grate­ful­ly, “for sav­ing me from God­frey. He hurt me a good deal.”

“He's a brute,” said Andy, warm­ly. “Don't be afraid of him, Al­fred, but come and tell me if he touch­es you again. I'll give him some­thing he won't like.”

“You must be very strong, Andy,” said the lit­tle boy, ad­mir­ing­ly. “You knocked him over just as easy.”

Andy laughed.

“Did you ev­er know an Irish boy that couldn't fight?” he asked. “I'm bet­ter with my fists than with my brains, Al­fred.”

“That's be­cause you nev­er went to school much. You're get­ting on fast, Andy.”

“I'm tryin', Al­fred,” he said. “It's a shame for a big boy like me not to know as much as a lit­tle boy like you.”

“You'll soon get ahead of me, Andy.”

Mean­while God­frey had tak­en his place in school, feel­ing far from com­fort­able. He was out­raged by the thought that Andy, whom he re­gard­ed as so much be­neath him, should have had the au­dac­ity to throw him down, and put his knees on his breast. It made him grind his teeth when he thought of it. What should he do about it? He want­ed to be re­venged in some way, and he meant to be.

Fi­nal­ly he de­cid­ed to re­port Andy to the teach­er, and, if pos­si­ble, in­duce him to pun­ish him.

“The teach­er knows that my fa­ther's a man of in­flu­ence,” he said to him­self. “He will be­lieve me be­fore that raga­muf­fin. If he don't, I'll try to get him turned away.”

When, there­fore, the bell rang for re­cess, and the rest of the schol­ars hur­ried to the play­ground, God­frey lin­gered be­hind. He wait­ed till all the boys were gone, and then went up to the teach­er.

“Well, God­frey, what is it?” asked the mas­ter.

“Mr. Stone, I want to make a com­plaint against An­drew Burke,” said God­frey.

“What has he done?”

“He is a brute,” said God­frey, in an ex­cit­ed man­ner. “He dared to come up be­hind my back be­fore school be­gan, and knock me down. Then he put his knee on my chest, and wouldn't let me up.”

“What made him do it?”

“He knows I don't like him, and am not will­ing to as­so­ciate with him.”

“Was that all the rea­son?” asked the teach­er, keen­ly.

“I sup­pose so,” said God­frey.

“I was not aware that Andy Burke was quar­rel­some,” said the teach­er. “He be­haves well in school.”

“Be­cause he knows he must.”

“Very well; I will in­quire in­to the mat­ter af­ter re­cess.”

God­frey went back to his seat, tri­umphant. He didn't doubt that his en­emy would be severe­ly pun­ished.