"Why would I be ashamed?" said Andy.

"For chatin'--that's the word, since you provoke me."

"What I done is not chatin'," said Andy. "I had a blessed example for it."

"Oh! do you hear this!" shouted Owny, nearly provoked to take the worth of his money out of Andy's ribs.

"Yes, I say a blessed example," said Andy. "Sure, didn't the blessed Saint Peter build his church upon a rock, and why shouldn't I build my c.o.c.k o' hay on a rock?"

Owny, with all his rage, could not help laughing at the ridiculous conceit. "By this and that, Andy," said he, "you're always sayin' or doin' the quarest things in the counthry, bad cess to you!" So he laid his whip upon his little hack instead of Andy, and galloped off.

Andy went over the next day to the neighbouring town, where Owny Doyle kept a little inn and a couple of post-chaises (such as they were), and expressed much sorrow that Owny had been deceived by the appearance of the hay; "but I'll pay you the differ out o' my wages, Misther Doyle--in throth I will--that is, whenever I have any wages to get: for the Squire turned me off, you see, and I'm out of place at this present."

"Oh, never mind it," said Owny. "Sure, it was the widow woman got the money, and I don't begrudge it; and now that it's all past and gone, I forgive you. But tell me, Andy, what put such a quare thing into your head?"

"Why, you see," said Andy, "I didn't like the poor mother's pride should be let down in the eyes o' the neighbours; and so I made the weeshy bit o' hay look as dacent as I could--but, at the same time, I wouldn't chate any one for the world, Misther Doyle."

"Throth, I b'lieve you wouldn't, Andy; but, 'pon my sowl, the next time I go buy hay, I'll take care that Saint Pether hasn't any hand in it."

Owny turned on his heel, and was walking away with that air of satisfaction which men so commonly a.s.sume after fancying they have said a good thing, when Andy interrupted his retreat by an interjectional "Misther Doyle?"

"Well," said Owny, looking over his shoulder.

"I was thinkin', sir," said Andy.

"For the first time in your life, I b'lieve," said Owny: "and what was it you wor thinkin'?"

"I was thinkin' o' dhrivin' a chay, sir."

"And what's that to me?" said Owny.

"Sure I might dhrive one o' your chaises."

"And kill more o' my horses, Andy--eh? No, no, faix, I'm afeer'd o'

you, Andy."

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Reward of Humanity]

"Not a boy in Ireland knows dhrivin' betther nor me, any way," said Andy.

"Faix, it's any way and every way but the way you ought you'd dhrive, sure enough, I b'lieve: but, at all events, I don't want a post-boy, Andy--I have Micky Doolin, and his brother Pether, and them's enough for me.

"Maybe you'd be wantin' a helper in the stable, Misther Doyle?"

"No, Andy; but the first time I want to make hay to advantage, I'll send for you," said Owny, laughing, as he entered his house, and nodding at Andy, who returned a capacious grin to Owny's shrewd smile, like the exaggerated reflection of a concave mirror. But the grin soon subsided, for men seldom prolong the laugh that is raised at their own expense; and the corners of Andy's mouth turned down as his hand turned up to the back of his head, which he rubbed, as he sauntered down the street from Owny Doyle's.

It was some miles to Andy's home, and night over-took him on the way.

As he trudged along in the middle of the road he was looking up at a waning moon and some few stars twinkling through the gloom, absorbed in many sublime thoughts as to their existence, and wondering what they were made of, when his cogitations were cut short by tumbling over something which lay in the middle of the highway; and on scrambling to his legs again, and seeking to investigate the cause of his fall, he was rather surprised to find a man lying in such a state of insensibility that all Andy's efforts could not rouse him. While he was standing over him, undecided as to what he should do, the sound of approaching wheels, and the rapid steps of galloping horses, attracted his attention; and it became evident that unless the chaise and pair which he now saw in advance were brought to pull up, the cares of the man in the middle of the road would be very soon over. Andy shouted l.u.s.tily, but to his every "Halloo there!" the crack of the whip replied, and accelerated speed instead of a halt was the consequence; at last, in desperation, Andy planted himself in the middle of the road, and with out-spread arms before the horses, succeeded in arresting their progress, while he shouted "Stop!" at the top of his voice.

A pistol-shot from the chaise was the consequence of Andy's summons, for a certain Mr. Furlong, a foppish young gentleman, travelling from the castle of Dublin, never dreamed that a humane purpose could produce the cry of "Stop," on a _horrid Irish_ road; and as he was reared in the ridiculous belief that every man ran a great risk of his life who ventured outside the city of Dublin, he travelled with a brace of loaded pistols beside him; and as he had been antic.i.p.ating murder and robbery ever since nightfall, he did not await the demand for his "money or his life" to defend both, but fired away the instant he heard the word "Stop!" and fortunate it was for Andy that the traveller's hurry impaired his aim. Before he could discharge a second pistol, Andy had screened himself under the horses' heads; and recognising in the postilion his friend Micky Doolin, he shouted out, "Micky, jewel, don't let them be shootin' me!"

Now Micky's cares were quite enough engaged on his own account: for the first pistol-shot made the horses plunge violently, and the second time Furlong blazed away set the saddle-horse kicking at such a rate, that all Micky's horsemanship was required to preserve his seat; added to which, the dread of being shot came over him, and he crouched low on the grey's neck, holding fast by the mane, and shouting for mercy as well as Andy, who still kept roaring to Mick, "not to let them be shootin' him," while he held his hat above him, in the fashion of a shield, as if that would have proved any protection against a bullet.

"Who are you at all?" said Mick.

"Andy Rooney, sure."

"And what do you want?"

"To save the man's life."

The last words only caught the ear of the frightened Furlong; and as the phrase "his life" seemed a personal threat to himself, he swore a trembling oath at the postilion that he would shoot him if he did not _dwive_ on, for he abjured the use of that rough letter, R, which the Irish so much rejoice in. "Dwive on, you wascal, dwive on!"

exclaimed Mr. Furlong.

"There's no fear o' you, sir," said Micky, "it's a friend o' my own."

Mr. Furlong was not quite satisfied that he was therefore the safer.

"And what is it at all, Andy?" continued Mick.

"I tell you there's a man lying dead in the road here, and sure you'll kill him, if you dhrive over him."

"How could I kill him any more than he _is_ kilt," says Mick, "if he's dead already?"

"Well, no matther for that," says Andy. "'Light off your horse, will you, and help me to rise him?"

Mick dismounted, and a.s.sisted Andy in lifting the prostrate man from the centre of the road to the slope of turf which bordered its side.

They judged he was not dead, however, from the warmth of the body; but that he should still sleep seemed astonishing, considering the quant.i.ty of shaking and kicking they gave him.

"I b'lieve it's drunk he is," said Mick.

"He gave a grunt that time," said Andy; "shake him again, and he'll spake."

To a fresh shaking the drunken man at last gave some tokens of returning consciousness, by making several winding blows at his benefactors, and uttering some half-intelligent maledictions.

"Bad luck to you, do you know where you are?" said Mick.

"Well!" was the drunken e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n.

"By this and that, it's my brother Pether," said Mick. "We wondhered what had kept him so late with the return shay, and this is the way it is. He tumbled off his horses, dhrunk: and where's the shay, I wondher?

Oh, murdher! what will Misther Doyle say?"

"What's the weason you don't dwive on?" said Mr. Furlong, putting his head out of the chaise.

"It's one on the road here, your honour, almost killed."

"Was it wobbers?" asked Mr. Furlong.

"Maybe you'd take him into the shay wid you, sir?"