Only an Irish Boy Andy Burke's Fortunes

CHAPTER XIII GODFREY'S REBELLION

Hav­ing made his com­plaint, God­frey wait­ed im­pa­tient­ly for the re­cess to close, in or­der that he might see ret­ri­bu­tion fall up­on the head of Andy. He had not long to wait. Mean­while, how­ev­er, he was missed in the play­ground.

“Where's God­frey?” asked one of the boys.

“He don't want to come out. He got a lick­ing from Andy Burke.”

“I ain't much sor­ry. It'll cure him of some of his airs.”

“I don't know about that. It comes nat­ural to him to put on airs.”

“If any­body has in­sult­ed God­frey,” re­marked Ben Travers, his toady, “he had bet­ter look out for him­self.”

“Do you hear that, Andy? Ben Travers says you must look out for your­self.”

“Who's goin' to pun­ish me?” asked Andy. “If it's Ben, let him come on.”

But Ben showed no dis­po­si­tion to “come on.” He could talk and threat­en, but when words were to be suc­ceed­ed by blows he nev­er was on hand. In fact he was a cow­ard, and ought to have kept qui­et, but it is just that class that are usu­al­ly most noisy.

Andy had no idea that God­frey would com­plain to the teach­er in a mat­ter where he was so clear­ly in the wrong, nor would he if he had not re­lied up­on his fa­ther's po­si­tion to car­ry him through.

“Mr. Stone is a poor man,” he thought, “and he won't dare to take the part of a low Irish boy against the on­ly son and heir of Colonel Pre­ston. He knows on which side his bread is but­tered, and he won't be such a fool as to of­fend my fa­ther.”

While he said this he knew that it was very doubt­ful whether his fa­ther would es­pouse his cause, but then Mr. Stone would prob­ably sup­pose he would, which would an­swer the same pur­pose on the present oc­ca­sion.

When Andy re-​en­tered the school­room with the rest of the boys at the ter­mi­na­tion of re­cess, he saw God­frey in his seat. The lat­ter dart­ed at him a glance of ma­li­cious tri­umph.

When the noise of en­ter­ing was over, Mr. Stone said:

“An­drew Burke, come for­ward!”

Con­sid­er­ably sur­prised, Andy came for­ward, and looked up with a mod­est self-​pos­ses­sion in­to the teach­er's face.

“A com­plaint has been en­tered against you, An­drew,” Mr. Stone be­gan.

“What is it, sir?” asked Andy.

“You are charged by God­frey Pre­ston with vi­olent­ly as­sault­ing and throw­ing him down, just be­fore school com­menced. Is this true?”

“Yes, sir,” an­swered Andy, prompt­ly.

“You are charged with kneel­ing down up­on him, and pre­vent­ing his get­ting up.”

“That is true,” said Andy, quite com­pos­ed­ly.

“I am sur­prised that you should have act­ed in this man­ner,” said Mr. Stone. “I did not think you quar­rel­some or a bul­ly.”

“I hope I am not,” said Andy. “Did God­frey tell you why I knocked him over?”

“He said it was be­cause he would not as­so­ciate with you.”

Andy laughed.

“I hope you'll ex­cuse my laugh­ing, sir,” he said, re­spect­ful­ly; “but I'd rather as­so­ciate with any of the boys than with God­frey. I like him least of all.”

“Then, that is the rea­son you at­tacked him, is it?”

“No, sir.”

“Then, what was it?”

“If you don't mind, sir, I'd like to have you ask Al­fred Park­er.”

“Al­fred Park­er,” called out the teach­er, “come for­ward.”

Al­fred obeyed.

“Do you know why An­drew at­tacked God­frey Pre­ston?”

“Yes, sir; it was on my ac­count.”

“On your ac­count! Ex­plain.”

“This morn­ing, be­fore school, I was play­ing with an­oth­er boy, and ac­ci­den­tal­ly ran in­to God­frey. He got mad, and threw me over vi­olent­ly. Then he pressed his knee on my breast till I could hard­ly breathe. I begged him to let me up, but he would not, though he knew that it was on­ly an ac­ci­dent. While I was ly­ing on the ground, Andy Burke came up. He no soon­er saw me than he ran up, and threw God­frey off, and got on him in the same man­ner, and I think he served him right.”

As he ut­tered these last words, God­frey scowled omi­nous­ly, but Andy's face bright­ened up. He was glad that Al­fred was brave enough to speak up for him.

“This al­ters the case con­sid­er­ably,” said the teach­er. “Is there any oth­er boy who wit­nessed the af­fair, and can sub­stan­ti­ate what has been said? If so, let him raise his hand.”

Her­man Reynolds raised his hand.

“Well, Her­man, what do you know about it? Were you present?”

“Yes, sir, I was. It was just as Al­fred said it was.”

“What have you to say, God­frey?” asked Mr. Stone, stern­ly.

“I don't mean to be in­sult­ed by an Irish boy,” said God­frey, haugh­ti­ly.

“Re­mem­ber where you are, sir, and speak in a more be­com­ing man­ner. Did you at­tack Al­fred Park­er, as he says?”

“He had no busi­ness to run in­to me.”

“An­swer my ques­tion.”

“Yes, I did.”

“And did you kneel on his breast?”

“Yes.”

“Oblige me by say­ing, 'Yes, sir.'”

“Yes, sir,” said God­frey, re­luc­tant­ly.

“Why do you com­plain, then, of be­ing treat­ed in a sim­ilar man­ner by An­drew?”

“He has no busi­ness to touch me.”

“If he had not in­ter­fered when he saw you mal­treat­ing his young schoolfel­low, I should have been ashamed of him,” said the teach­er.

This so far chimed in with the sen­ti­ment of the boys that they al­most in­vol­un­tar­ily ap­plaud­ed; and one boy, aris­ing, ex­claimed:

“Three cheers for the teach­er!”

The three cheers were giv­en with a will, and, though they were, strict­ly speak­ing, out of or­der, Mr. Stone was a sen­si­ble man, and the on­ly no­tice he took of it was to say:

“Thank you, boys. I am glad to find that you agree with me on this point, and that your sym­pa­thies are with the weak and op­pressed. God­frey Pre­ston, your com­plaint is dis­missed. I ad­vise you to cease act­ing the part of a bul­ly, or you may get an­oth­er sim­ilar les­son. An­drew, when you ex­ert your strength, I hope it will al­ways be in as just a cause. You may take your seat, and you al­so, Al­fred.”

The boys would have ap­plaud­ed again, but Mr. Stone said, wav­ing his hand:

“Once is enough, boys. Time is pre­cious, and we must now go on with our lessons. First class in arith­metic.”

God­frey had been equal­ly sur­prised and an­gry at the turn that af­fairs had tak­en. He was boil­ing with in­dig­na­tion, and ner­vous­ly moved about in his seat. Af­ter a slight pause, hav­ing ap­par­ent­ly tak­en his de­ter­mi­na­tion, he took his cap, and walked to­ward the door.

Mr. Stone's at­ten­tion was drawn to him.

“Where are you go­ing, God­frey?” he de­mand­ed, quick­ly.

“Home,” said God­frey.

“You will wait till the end of school.”

“I would rather not, sir.”

“It makes no dif­fer­ence what you would rather do, or rather not do. Are you sick?”

“No, sir.”

“Then you have no good cause for leav­ing, and I shall not per­mit you to do so.”

“I have been in­sult­ed, sir, and I don't wish to stay.”

“By whom?” de­mand­ed the teach­er, sharply.

God­frey would like to have said, “By you,” but he saw the teach­er's keen eye fixed up­on him, and he didn't dare to do it. He hes­itat­ed.

“By whom?” re­peat­ed Mr. Stone.

“By An­drew Burke.”

“That is no good rea­son for your leav­ing school, or would not be, if it were true, but it is not. He has on­ly met­ed out to you the same pun­ish­ment you un­der­took to in­flict up­on a small­er boy. Take your seat.”

“My fa­ther will take me away from school,” said God­frey, an­gri­ly.

“We shall none of us mourn for your ab­sence. Take your seat.”

This last re­mark of the teach­er still fur­ther in­censed God­frey, and led him tem­porar­ily to for­get him­self. Though he had been bid­den to take his seat, he re­solved to leave the school­room, and made a rush for the door. But Mr. Stone was there be­fore him. He seized God­frey by the col­lar and dragged him, shak­ing him as he pro­ceed­ed, to his seat, on which he placed him with some em­pha­sis.

“That is the way I treat rebels,” he said. “You for­get your­self, Pre­ston. The next time you make up your mind to re­sist my com­mands, count in ad­vance on a much sev­er­er les­son.”

God­frey was pale with pas­sion, and his hands twitched con­vul­sive­ly. He on­ly wished he had Mr. Stone in his pow­er for five min­utes. He would treat him worse than he did Al­fred Park­er. But a boy in a pas­sion is not a very pleas­ant spec­ta­cle. It is enough to say that God­frey was com­pelled to stay in school for the re­main­der of the forenoon. As soon as he could get away, he ran home, de­ter­mined to en­list his moth­er in his cause.