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Only an Irish Boy Andy Burke's Fortunes by Alger, Horatio - CHAPTER XX HOW THE NEWS WAS RECEIVED

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Only an Irish Boy Andy Burke's Fortunes

CHAPTER XX HOW THE NEWS WAS RECEIVED

It is al­ways pleas­ant to car­ry good news, and Andy has­tened with joy­ful feet to his moth­er's hum­ble dwelling.

“Why, Andy, you're out of breath. What's hap­pened?” asked Mrs. Burke.

“I was afraid of bein' robbed,” said Andy.

“The rob­ber wouldn't get much that would steal from you, Andy.”

“I don't know that, moth­er. I ain't so poor as you think. Look there, now!”

Here he dis­played the roll of bills. There were twen­ty fives, which made quite a thick roll.

“Where did you get so much, Andy?” asked his sis­ter Mary.

“How much is it?” asked his moth­er.

“A hun­dred dol­lars,” an­swered Andy, proud­ly.

“A hun­dred dol­lars!” re­peat­ed his moth­er, with ap­pre­hen­sion. “Oh, Andy, I hope you haven't been steal­ing?”

“Did you ev­er know me to stale, moth­er?” said Andy.

“No, but I thought you might be tempt­ed. Whose mon­ey is it?”

“It's yours, moth­er.”

“Mine!” ex­claimed Mrs. Burke, in as­ton­ish­ment. “You're jok­ing now, Andy.”

“No, I'm not. It's yours.”

“Where did it come from, then?”

“Colonel Pre­ston sent it to you as a present.”

“I am afraid you are not tellin' me the truth, Andy,” said his moth­er, doubt­ful­ly. “Why should he send me so much mon­ey?”

“Lis­ten, and I'll tell you, moth­er, and you'll see it's the truth I've been tellin'.”

There­upon he told the sto­ry of his ad­ven­ture with the high­way­man and how he had saved Colonel Pre­ston from be­ing robbed.

His moth­er lis­tened with pride, for though Andy spoke mod­est­ly, she could see that he had act­ed in a brave and man­ly way, and it made her proud of him.

“So the colonel,” Andy con­clud­ed, “want­ed to give me a hun­dred dol­lars, but I didn't like to take it my­self. But when he said he would give it to you, I couldn't say any­thing ag'in­st that. So here it is, moth­er, and I hope you'll spend some of it on your­self.”

“I don't feel as if it be­longed to me, Andy. It was you that he meant it for.”

“Keep it, moth­er, and it'll do to use when we nade it.”

“I don't like to keep so much mon­ey in the house, Andy. We might be robbed.”

“You can put part of it in the sav­ings bank, moth­er.”

This course was adopt­ed, and Andy him­self car­ried eighty dol­lars, and de­posit­ed it in a sav­ings bank in Melville, a few days af­ter­ward.

Mean­while Colonel Pre­ston told the sto­ry of Andy's prowess, at home. But Mrs. Pre­ston was prej­udiced against Andy, and lis­tened cold­ly.

“It seems to me, Colonel Pre­ston,” she said, “you are mak­ing al­to­geth­er too much of that Irish boy. He puts on enough airs to make one sick al­ready.”

“I nev­er ob­served it, my dear,” said the colonel, mild­ly.

“Ev­ery­one else does. He thought him­self on a lev­el with our God­frey.”

“He is God­frey's su­pe­ri­or in some re­spects.”

“Oh, well, if you are go­ing to ex­alt him above your own flesh and blood, I won't stay and lis­ten to you.”

“You dis­turb your­self un­nec­es­sar­ily, my dear. I have no in­ten­tion of adopt­ing him in place of my son. But he has done me a great ser­vice this af­ter-​noon, and dis­played a cool­ness and courage very un­usu­al in a boy of his age. But for him, I should be eight hun­dred dol­lars poor­er.”

“Oh, well, you can give him fifty cents, and he will be well paid for his ser­vices, as you call them.”

“Fifty cents!” re­peat­ed her hus­band.

“Well, a dol­lar, if you like.”

“I have giv­en him a hun­dred dol­lars.”

“A hun­dred dol­lars!” al­most screamed Mrs. Pre­ston, who was a very mean wom­an. “Are you in­sane?”

“Not that I am aware of, my dear.”

“It is per­fect­ly pre­pos­ter­ous to give such a sum to such a boy.”

“I ought to say that I gave it to him for his moth­er. He was not will­ing to ac­cept it for him­self.”

“That's a like­ly sto­ry,” said Mrs. Pre­ston, in­cred­ulous­ly. “He on­ly wants to make a fa­vor­able im­pres­sion up­on you--per­haps to get more out of you.”

“You mis­judge him, my dear.”

“I know he is an art­ful, in­trigu­ing young ras­cal. You give him a hun­dred dol­lars, yet you re­fused to give God­frey ten dol­lars last week.”

“For a very good rea­son. He has a lib­er­al al­lowance, and must keep with­in it. He did not need the mon­ey he asked for.”

“Yet you lav­ish a hun­dred dol­lars on this boy.”

“I felt jus­ti­fied in do­ing so. Which was bet­ter, to give him that sum, or to lose eight hun­dred?”

“I don't like the boy, and I nev­er shall. I sup­pose he will be strut­ting around, boast­ing of his great achieve­ment. If he had a gun it was noth­ing to do.”

“I sus­pect God­frey would hard­ly have ven­tured up­on it,” said the colonel, smil­ing.

“Oh, of course, God­frey is vast­ly in­fe­ri­or to the Irish boy!” re­marked Mrs. Pre­ston, iron­ical­ly. “You ad­mire the fam­ily so much that I sup­pose if I were tak­en away, you would mar­ry his moth­er and es­tab­lish her in my place.”

“If you have any such ap­pre­hen­sions, my dear, your best course is to out­live her. That will ef­fec­tu­al­ly pre­vent my mar­ry­ing her, and I pledge you my word that, while you are alive, I shall not think of elop­ing with her.”

“It is very well to jest about it,” said Mrs. Pre­ston, toss­ing her head.

“I am pre­cise­ly of your opin­ion, my dear. As you ob­serve, that is pre­cise­ly what I am do­ing.”

So the in­ter­view ter­mi­nat­ed. It was very pro­vok­ing to Mrs. Pre­ston that her hus­band should have giv­en away a hun­dred dol­lars to Andy Burke's moth­er, but the thing was done, and could not be un­done. How­ev­er, she wrote an ac­count of the af­fair to God­frey, who, she knew, would sym­pa­thize ful­ly with her view of the case. I give some ex­tracts from her let­ter:

"Your fa­ther seems per­fect­ly in­fat­uat­ed with that low Irish boy. Of course, I al­lude to Andy Burke. He has gone so far as to give him a hun­dred dol­lars. Yes­ter­day, in rid­ing home from Melville, with eight hun­dred dol­lars in his pock­et­book, he says he was stopped by a high­way­man, who de­mand­ed his mon­ey or his life. Very sin­gu­lar­ly, Andy came up just in the nick of time with a gun, and made a great show of in­ter­fer­ing, and fi­nal­ly drove the man away, as your fa­ther re­ports. He is full of praise of Andy, and, as I said, gave him a hun­dred dol­lars, when two or three would have been quite enough, even had the res­cue been re­al. But of this I have my doubts. It is very strange that the boy should have been on the spot just at the right time, still more strange that a full-​grown man should have been fright­ened away by a boy of fif­teen. In fact, I think it is what they call a 'put-​up job.' I think the rob­ber and Andy were con­fed­er­ates, and that the whole thing was cut and dried, that the man should make the at­tack, and Andy should ap­pear and fright­en him away, for the sake of a re­ward which I dare say the two have shared to­geth­er. This is what I think about the mat­ter. I haven't said so to your fa­ther, be­cause he is so in­fat­uat­ed with the Irish boy that it would on­ly make him an­gry, but I have no doubt that you will agree with me. [It may be said here that God­frey ea­ger­ly adopt­ed his moth­er's view, and was equal­ly pro­voked at his fa­ther's lib­er­al­ity to his young en­emy.] Your fa­ther says he won't give you the ten dol­lars you asked for. He can lav­ish a hun­dred dol­lars on Andy, but he has no mon­ey to give his own son. But soon­er or lat­er that boy will be come up with--soon­er or lat­er he will show him­self in his true col­ors, and your fa­ther will be obliged to con­fess that he has been de­ceived. It puts me out of pa­tience when I think of him.

“We shall ex­pect you home on Fri­day af­ter­noon of next week, as usu­al.”

Andy was quite un­con­scious of the large space which he oc­cu­pied in the thoughts of Mrs. Pre­ston and God­frey, and of the ex­tent to which he trou­bled them. He went on, try­ing to do his du­ty, and suc­ceed­ing ful­ly in sat­is­fy­ing the Miss­es Grant, who had come to feel a strong in­ter­est in his wel­fare.

Three weeks lat­er, Sophia Grant, who had been to the vil­lage store on an er­rand, re­turned home, look­ing great­ly alarmed.

“What is the mat­ter, Sophia?” asked her sis­ter. “You look as if you had seen a ghost.”

“Just so, Priscil­la,” she said; “no, I don't mean that, but we may all be ghosts in a short time.”

“What do you mean?”

“Small­pox is in town!”

“Who's got it?”

“Colonel Pre­ston; and his wife won't stay in the house. She is pack­ing up to go off, and I ex­pect the poor man'll die all by him­self, un­less some­body goes and takes care of him, and then it'll spread, and we'll all die of it.”

This was cer­tain­ly startling in­tel­li­gence. Andy pitied the colonel, who had al­ways treat­ed him well. It oc­curred to him that his moth­er had passed through an at­tack of small­pox in her youth, and could take care of the colonel with­out dan­ger. He re­solved to con­sult her about it at once.