Only an Irish Boy Andy Burke's Fortunes

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.”

“I've got a lit­tle car­pet­bag,” said his moth­er. “That looks more re­spectable. When you have earned enough mon­ey, you must have a new suit of clothes.”

“How much will they cost, moth­er?”

“I think we can get a cheap suit for fif­teen or twen­ty dol­lars. When you have got the mon­ey, we will call on the tai­lor and see.”

“Shure, I'll feel like a gen­tle­man with a suit like that.”

“Mary, go and get the car­pet­bag. I've packed Andy's clothes all ready for him.”

Mary soon reap­peared with the car­pet­bag, and Andy set out on his re­turn.

Present­ly, as the clock struck nine, he knocked at the door of the Miss­es Grant. The el­der opened the door for him.

“You are punc­tu­al, An­drew,” she said, ap­prov­ing­ly.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Are those your clothes?” point­ing to the bag he car­ried.

“What few I've got, ma'am. I'm goin' to buy some more when I've got mon­ey enough.”

“That is right. We want you to look re­spectable.”

“Just so,” re­marked Sophia, who felt that it was time for her to speak.

Then a bril­liant idea seized her.

“If he was a girl, we could give him some of our dress­es.”

“But he isn't,” said mat­ter-​of-​fact Priscil­la.

“Or if we were men,” con­tin­ued Sophia, with an­oth­er bril­liant idea.

“But we are not.”

“Just so,” as­sent­ed her sis­ter, now brought to the end of her sug­ges­tions.

By this time Andy was in the house, hold­ing his cap in one hand, and his car­pet­bag in the oth­er.

“Do you feel tired?” asked Priscil­la.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Then, per­haps you would like to go to bed?”

“I would, if it's just the same to you, ma'am.”

“Very well, fol­low me, and I will show you your room. Sophia, per­haps you had bet­ter come, too.”

They went up the front stairs. The house prop­er had two rooms on the low­er floor, and the two cham­bers over them. But there was, be­sides, an ex­ten­sion be­hind, used as a kitchen, and over this was the room which had been used by John, the for­mer ser­vant.

“This is your room, An­drew,” said Miss Priscil­la. “Sophia, will you lift the latch?”

The door be­ing opened, re­vealed a small cham­ber, with the ceil­ing part­ly slop­ing. There were two win­dows. It was very plain­ly fur­nished, but looked very com­fort­able. Andy glanced about him with a look of sat­is­fac­tion. It was con­sid­er­ably more at­trac­tive than the bed in the at­tic which he had oc­cu­pied at the house of the farmer for whom he had last worked.

“We've put the feath­er bed at the bot­tom, as it's sum­mer,” said Miss Priscil­la.

“All right, ma'am.”

“There's one thing you've for­got­ten, Priscil­la,” sug­gest­ed Sophia.

“What is that?”

“The gun.”

“Oh, yes. I am glad you re­mind­ed me of it. An­drew, can you fire off a gun?”

“Yes, ma'am,” said An­drew, glibly.

He had nev­er done it, but he had seen a gun fired, and al­ways want­ed to make a tri­al him­self.

“As you are the on­ly men­folks in the house, we should ex­pect you to fire at any rob­bers that tried to en­ter the house.”

“Do you ex­pect any, ma'am?” asked Andy, ea­ger­ly.

“No; but some might come. Of course, we can­not fire guns--it would be im­prop­er, as we are ladies.”

“Just so,” in­ter­rupt­ed Sophia.

“So we shall leave that to you. Do you think you would dare to?”

“Would I dare, is it?” asked Andy. “Shure, I'd be glad of the chance.”

“I see you are brave. I'll show you the gun now.”

She went to the clos­et in the cor­ner of the room, and point­ed out a big, un­wieldy mus­ket to Andy. It was in the cor­ner.

“Is it load­ed, ma'am?” he asked.

“Yes; it has been load­ed for a year or more. John nev­er had oc­ca­sion to use it, and I hope you won't. If any rob­ber should come,” added the kind-​heart­ed spin­ster, “per­haps you had bet­ter on­ly shoot him in the arm, and not kill him.”

“Just as you say, ma'am.”

“I be­lieve that is all I have to say. Sophia, shall we go to our own room?”

“Just so.”

So the two maid­ens with­drew, and Andy was left to his own re­flec­tions. He un­dressed him­self quick­ly, and de­posit­ed him­self in the bed, which proved to be very com­fort­able.

He went to bed, but there was one thing that pre­vent­ed his go­ing to sleep. This was the gun. He had nev­er even had one in his hand, and now there was one at his ab­so­lute dis­pos­al. It made him feel a sense of his im­por­tance to feel that, up­on him, young as he was, de­volved the du­ty of de­fend­ing the house and its oc­cu­pants from bur­glary.

“And why not? Shure, I'm 'most a man,” re­flect­ed Andy. “I can shoot off a gun as well as any­body. I won­der will rob­bers come to-​night!” thought Andy.

He rather wished they would, so that he might have an ex­cuse for fir­ing the gun. How­ev­er, of this there seemed very lit­tle chance, for had not Miss Priscil­la said that it had been load­ed for more than a year, and dur­ing all that time John had nev­er had oc­ca­sion to use it? This seemed rather dis­cour­ag­ing.

“I won­der would they let me go out gun­ning with it?” thought Andy.

Some­how or oth­er, he could not get his mind off the gun, and, af­ter a lapse of an hour, he was as wide awake as ev­er.

Mean­while, Priscil­la and Sophia were both asleep, not be­ing in­ter­est­ed in the gun.

Fi­nal­ly it oc­curred to Andy that he would get up and look at the gun. He want­ed to make sure that he un­der­stood how to fire it. It was im­por­tant that he should do so, he rea­soned to him­self, for might not a bur­glar come that very night? Then, sup­pose he was un­able to fire the gun, and in con­se­quence of his ig­no­rance, both he and the two ladies should be mur­dered in their beds. Of course, this was not to be thought of, so Andy got out of bed, and, find­ing a match, lit the can­dle and put it on the bu­reau, or chest of draw­ers, as they called it in the coun­try.

Then he stepped soft­ly to the clos­et and took out the gun.

“Mur­der! how heavy it is!” thought Andy. “I didn't think it was half as heavy. There must be a pound of bul­lets in­side. Now,” he said to him­self, “sup­pose a big thafe was to poke his dirty head in at the winder and say, 'Give me all your mon­ey, or I'll break your head'--I'd put up with the gun and point at him this way.”

Here Andy brought the gun in­to po­si­tion with some dif­fi­cul­ty and put his fin­ger near the trig­ger.

“And I'd say,” con­tin­ued Andy, re­hears­ing his part, “'Jump down, you thafe, or I'll put a bul­let through your head.'”

At that un­lucky mo­ment his fin­ger ac­ci­den­tal­ly pulled the trig­ger, and in­stant­ly there was a tremen­dous re­port, the noise be­ing in­creased by the shat­ter­ing of the win­dow panes by the bul­let.

Prob­ably the charge was too heavy, for the gun “kicked,” and Andy, to his as­ton­ish­ment, found him­self ly­ing flat on his back on the floor, with the gun ly­ing be­side him.

“Oh, mur­der!” ejac­ulat­ed the be­wil­dered boy, “is it dead I am? Shure, the div­il's in the gun. What will the ould wim­men say? They'll think it's bloody bur­glars get­tin' in­to the house. Shure, I'll slip on my pants, for they'll be com­ing to see what's hap­pened.”

He picked him­self up, and slipped on his pants. He had scarce­ly got them on when the trem­bling voice of Miss Priscil­la was heard at the door.