Only an Irish Boy Andy Burke's Fortunes

CHAPTER II A SKIRMISH

Andy Burke was not the boy to run away from an op­po­nent of his own size and age. Nei­ther did he pro­pose to sub­mit qui­et­ly to the thrash­ing which God­frey de­signed to give him. He dropped his stick and bun­dle, and squared off sci­en­tif­ical­ly at his aris­to­crat­ic foe.

God­frey paused an in­stant be­fore him.

“I'm go­ing to give you a thrash­ing,” he said; “the worst thrash­ing you ev­er had.”

“Are you, now?” asked Andy, undis­mayed. “Come on, thin; I'm ready for you.”

“You're an im­pu­dent young ruf­fi­an.”

“So are you.”

God­frey's aris­to­crat­ic blood boiled at this re­tort, and he struck out at Andy, but the lat­ter knew what was com­ing, and, swift as a flash, ward­ed it off, and fetched God­frey a blow full up­on his nose, which start­ed the blood. Now, the pain and the sight of the blood com­bined filled him with added fury, and he at­tempt­ed to seize Andy around the waist and throw him. But here again he was foiled. The young Irish boy evad­ed his grasp, and, seiz­ing him in turn, by an adroit move­ment of the foot, tripped him up. God­frey fell heav­ily on his back.

Andy with­drew a lit­tle, and did not of­fer to hold him down, as God­frey would have been sure to do un­der sim­ilar cir­cum­stances. “Have you got enough?” he asked.

“That wasn't fair,” ex­claimed God­frey, jump­ing up hasti­ly, deeply mor­ti­fied be­cause he had been worsted in the pres­ence of John, who, sooth to say, rather en­joyed his young mas­ter's over­throw.

He rushed im­petu­ous­ly at Andy, but he was blind­ed by his own im­petu­os­ity, and his ad­ver­sary, who kept cool and self-​pos­sessed, had, of course, the ad­van­tage. So the en­gage­ment ter­mi­nat­ed as be­fore--God­frey was stretched once more on the side­walk. He was about to re­new the as­sault, how­ev­er, when there was an in­ter­rup­tion. This in­ter­rup­tion came in the form of Colonel Pre­ston him­self, who was re­turn­ing from a busi­ness meet­ing of cit­izens in­ter­est­ed in es­tab­lish­ing a sav­ings bank in the vil­lage.

“What's all this, God­frey?” he called out, in a com­mand­ing tone.

God­frey knew that when his fa­ther spoke he must obey, and he there­fore de­sist­ed from the con­tem­plat­ed at­tack. He looked up at his fa­ther and said, sulk­ily:

“I was pun­ish­ing this Irish boy for his im­per­ti­nence.”

John grinned a lit­tle at this way of putting it, and his fa­ther said:

“It looked very much as if he were pun­ish­ing you.”

“I didn't get fair hold,” said God­frey, sulk­ily.

“So he was im­per­ti­nent, was he? What did he say?”

“He said I was no gen­tle­man.”

Andy Burke lis­tened at­ten­tive­ly to what was said, but didn't at­tempt to jus­ti­fy him­self as yet.

“I have some­times had sus­pi­cions of that my­self,” said his fa­ther, qui­et­ly.

Though God­frey was an on­ly son, his fa­ther was sen­si­ble enough to be ful­ly aware of his faults. If he was in­dulged, it was his moth­er, not his fa­ther, that was in fault. Colonel Pre­ston was a fair and just man, and had sen­si­ble views about home dis­ci­pline; but he was over­ruled by his wife, whose char­ac­ter may be judged from the fact that her son close­ly re­sem­bled her. She was vain, haughty, and proud of putting on airs. She con­sid­ered her­self quite the finest la­dy in the vil­lage, but con­de­scend­ed to as­so­ciate with the wives of the min­is­ter, the doc­tor, and a few of the rich­er in­hab­itants, but even with them she took care to show that she re­gard­ed her­self su­pe­ri­or to them all. She was, there­fore, un­pop­ular, as was her son among his com­pan­ions. How­ev­er, these two stood by each oth­er, and Mrs. Pre­ston was sure to de­fend God­frey in all he did, and com­plained be­cause his fa­ther did not do the same.

“I didn't think you'd turn against me, and let a low boy in­sult me,” com­plained God­frey.

“Why do you call him low?”

“Be­cause he's on­ly an Irish boy.”

“Some of our most dis­tin­guished men have been Irish boys or of Irish de­scent. I don't think you have proved your point.”

“He's a beg­gar.”

“I'm not a beg­gar,” ex­claimed Andy, speak­ing for the first time. “I nev­er begged a pen­ny in all my life.”

“Look at his rags,” said God­frey, scorn­ful­ly.

“You would be in rags, too, if you had to buy your own clothes. I think I should re­spect you very much more un­der the cir­cum­stances,” re­turned his fa­ther.

“The colonel's a-​givin' it to him,” thought John, with a grin. “'Twon't do the young mas­ter any harm.”

“What is your name?” in­quired Colonel Pre­ston, turn­ing now to our hero, as his son seemed to have no more to say.

“Andy Burke.”

“Do you live here?”

“I've just come to town, sir. My moth­er lives here.”

“Where does she live?”

“I don't know, sir, just. He knows,” point­ing out John.

“I cal­cer­late his moth­er lives in old Jake Bar­low's house,” said John.

“Oh, the Wid­ow Burke. Yes, I know. I be­lieve Mrs. Pre­ston em­ploys her some­times. Well, Andy, if that's your name, how is it that I catch you fight­ing with my son? That is not very cred­itable, un­less you have good cause.”

“He called my moth­er a low wom­an,” said Andy, “and then he run up and hit me.”

“Did you do that, God­frey?”

“He was putting on too many airs. He talked as if he was my equal.”

“He ap­pears to be more than your equal in strength,” said his fa­ther. “Well, was that all?”

“It was about all.”

“Then I think he did per­fect­ly right, and I hope you'll prof­it by the les­son you have re­ceived.”

“He is a gen­tle­man,” thought Andy. “He ain't hard on a boy be­cause he's poor.”

Colonel Pre­ston went in­to the house, but God­frey lin­gered be­hind a mo­ment. He want­ed to have a part­ing shot at his ad­ver­sary. He could fight with words, if not with blows.

“Look here!” he said, im­pe­ri­ous­ly; “don't let me see you round here again.”

“Why not?”

“I don't want to see you.”

“Then you can look the oth­er way,” said Andy, in­de­pen­dent­ly.

“This is my house.”

“I thought it was your fa­ther's.”

“That's the same thing. You'd bet­ter stay at home with your moth­er.”

“Thank you,” said Andy; “you're very kind. May I come along the road some­times?”

“If you do, walk on the oth­er side.”

Andy laughed. He was no longer pro­voked, but amused.

“Then, by the same to­ken, you'd bet­ter not come by my moth­er's house,” he said, good-​hu­mored­ly.

“I don't want to come near your mis­er­able shan­ty,” said God­frey, dis­dain­ful­ly.

“You may come, if you keep on the oth­er side of the road,” said Andy, sly­ly.

God­frey was get­ting dis­gust­ed; for in the war of words, as well as of blows, his ragged op­po­nent seemed to be get­ting the bet­ter of him. He turned on his heel and en­tered the house. He was sure of one who would sym­pa­thize with him in his dis­like and con­tempt for Andy--this was, of course, his moth­er. Be­sides, he had an­oth­er idea. He knew that Mrs. Burke had been em­ployed by his moth­er, oc­ca­sion­al­ly, to as­sist in the house. It oc­curred to him that it would be a fine piece of re­venge to in­duce her to dis­pense here­after with the poor wom­an's ser­vices. Bent on ac­com­plish­ing this cred­itable re­tal­ia­tion, he left his young op­po­nent mas­ter of the field.

“I must be goin',” said Andy, as he picked up his bun­dle and sus­pend­ed it from his stick. “Will I find the house where my moth­er lives, easy?”

The ques­tion was, of course, ad­dressed to John, who had just turned to go to the sta­ble.

“You can't miss it,” an­swered John. “It's a mile up the road, stands a lit­tle way back. There's a few hills of pota­toes in the front yard. How long since you saw your moth­er?”

“It's three months.”

“Does she know you are com­ing to-​day?”

“No. I would have wrote to her, but my fin­gers isn't very ready with the pen.”

“Nor mine ei­ther,” said John. “I'd rather take a lick­ing any time than write a let­ter. Come round and see us some time.”

“The boy'll lick me,” said Andy, laugh­ing.

“I guess you can man­age him.”

Andy smiled, for it was his own con­vic­tion, al­so. With his bun­dle on his shoul­der he trudged on, light of heart, for he was about to see his moth­er and sis­ter, both of whom he warm­ly loved.