“I wouldn’t slander my own boy like that if she’d take me back twenty times.”

“That’s the way to talk, mother,” said Andy, well pleased.  “Don’t you be afeared—­we’ll get along somehow.  More by token, here’s three dollars I brought home with me yisterday.”

Andy pulled out from his pocket six silver half-dollars, and offered them to his mother.

“Where did you get them, Andy?” she asked, in surprise.

“Where did I get them?  One way and another, by overwork.  We won’t starve while them last, will we?”

Andy’s cheerful tone had its effect upon his mother.

“Perhaps you’re right, Andy,” she said, smiling.  “At any rate we won’t cry till it’s time.”

“To-morrow I’ll go out and see if I can find work.”

“Suppose you don’t find it, Andy?” suggested his sister.

“Then I’ll take in washing,” said Andy, laughing.  “It’s an iligant washer I’d make, wouldn’t I now?”

“Nobody’d hire you more than once, Andy.”

By and by they had supper.  If they had been alone they would have got along on bread and tea; but “Andy needs meat, for he’s a growing boy,” said his mother.

And so Mary was dispatched to the butcher’s for a pound and a half of beefsteak, which made the meal considerably more attractive.  Mrs. Burke felt that it was extravagant, particularly just as her income was diminished, but she couldn’t bear to stint Andy.  At first she was not going to eat, herself, meaning to save a part for Andy’s breakfast; but our hero found her out, and declared he wouldn’t eat a bit if his mother did not eat, too.  So she was forced to take her share, and it did her good, for no one can keep up a decent share of strength on bread and tea alone.

The next morning Andy went out in search of work.  He had no very definite idea where to go, or to whom to apply, but he concluded to put in an application anywhere he could.

He paused in front of the house of Deacon Jones, a hard-fisted old farmer, whose reputation for parsimony was well known throughout the village, but of this Andy, being a newcomer, was ignorant.

“Wouldn’t you like to hire a good strong boy?” he asked, entering the yard.

The deacon looked up.

“Ever worked on a farm?”

“Yes.”

“Can you milk?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you work?”

“In Carver.”

“What’s your name?”

“Andy Burke.”

“Where do you live?”

“With my mother, Mrs. Burke, a little way down the road.”

“I know—­the Widder Burke.”

“Have you got any work for me?”

“Wait a minute, I’ll see.”

The deacon brought out an old scythe from the barn, and felt of the edge.  There was not much danger in so doing, for it was as dull as a hoe.

“This scythe needs sharpening,” he said.  “Come and turn the grindstone.”

“Well, here’s a job, anyhow,” thought Andy.  “Wonder what he’ll give me.”