Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Only an Irish Boy; Or, Andy Burke's Fortunes by Jr. Horatio Alger (romantic books to read .txt) 📖
- Author: Jr. Horatio Alger
Book online «Only an Irish Boy; Or, Andy Burke's Fortunes by Jr. Horatio Alger (romantic books to read .txt) 📖». Author Jr. Horatio Alger
"Then I'll go now."
"But remember, we want you to come back and sleep here. We do not feel safe without a man in the house."
Andy felt rather flattered at being referred to as a man.
"I'll be back any time you name, ma'am," he said.
"Then be here at nine o'clock."
"Very well, ma'am."
Andy put on his coat and hurried home. He wanted to tell his mother and Mary the good news about his engagement at such unexpected good wages.
Mrs. Burke looked up inquiringly as he entered the house.
"Where have you been, Andy?" she asked. "I thought I had lost you."
"You don't lose me so easy, mother. Shure, I've been at work."
"At work?"
"Yes—I've got a place."
"What, already? You are lucky, Andy."
"You'll think so, mother. How much do you think I get besides board, mind?"
"A dollar a week?"
"What do you say to three dollars?"
"You're a lucky boy, Andy. I'm glad for you."
"What do you say to five dollars a week, mother?" asked Andy, in exultation.
"You're jokin' now, Andy," said his sister. "I don't believe you've got a place at all."
"I have, thin, and it's five dollars a week I'm to get. Ask the ould maids I'm workin' for."
"The Miss Grants?"
"I expect so. They're mighty queer old ladies. One of 'm is always sayin' 'just so.'"
"That is Miss Sophia Grant."
"Just so," said Andy, mimicking her.
"You mustn't do that, Andy. Then it's them you're workin' for?"
"Yes, and they're mighty kind. I'm goin' back to sleep there to-night. They want a man to purtect them."
Mary laughed.
"Do you call yourself a man, Andy? What could you do if a burglar tried to get in?"
"I'd give him what Paddy did the drum," said Andy.
"Supper is ready," announced his mother.
It was a cheerful meal. Andy had done much better than his mother expected, and it seemed likely that they would get along in spite of her being discharged by Mrs. Preston.
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.
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