“Do you mane my mother?” said Andy, quickly, and he, too, looked angry and threatening.

“Yes, I do.  What are you going to do about it?” demanded Godfrey.

“You’d better take it back,” said Andy, his good-humored face now dark with passion.

“Do you think I am afraid of such a beggar as you?” sneered Godfrey.  “You appear to forget that you are speaking to a gentleman.”

“Shure, I didn’t know it,” returned Andy, hotly.  “You’re no gentleman if you insult my mother, and if you’ll come out here for a minute I’ll give you a bating.”

“John,” said Godfrey, angrily, “will you drive that beggar away?”

Now, John’s sympathies were rather with Andy than with his young master.  He had no great admiration for Godfrey, having witnessed during the year he had been in his father’s employ too much of the boy’s arrogance and selfishness to feel much attachment for him.  Had he taken any part in the present quarrel, he would have preferred espousing the cause of the Irish boy; but that would not have been polite, and he therefore determined to preserve his neutrality.

“That ain’t my business, Master Godfrey,” he said.  “You must fight your own battles.”

“Go away from here,” said Godfrey, imperiously advancing toward that part of the fence against which Andy Burke was leaning.

“Will you take back what you said agin’ my mother?”

“No, I won’t.”

“Then you’re a blackguard, if you are a rich man’s son.”

The blood rushed to Godfrey’s face on the instant.  This was a palpable insult.  What! he, a rich man’s son, the only son and heir of Colonel Anthony Preston, with his broad acres and ample bank account—­he to be called a blackguard by a low Irish boy.  His passion got the better of him, and he ran through the gate, his eyes flashing fire, bent on exterminating his impudent adversary.

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.