When Andy grew up to be what in country parlance is called "a brave lump of a boy," his mother thought he was old enough to do something for himself; so she took him one day along with her to the squire's, and waited outside the door, loitering up and down the yard behind the house, among a crowd of beggars and great lazy dogs, that were thrusting their heads into every iron pot that stood outside the kitchen door, until chance might give her "a sight o' the squire afore he wint out, or afore he wint in;" and after spending her entire day in this idle way, at last the squire made his appearance, and Judy presented her son, who kept scraping his foot, and pulling his forelock, that stuck out like a piece of ragged thatch from his forehead, making his obeisance to the squire, while his mother was sounding his praises for being the "handiest craythur alive—and so willin'—nothin' comes wrong to him."
Andy's introduction to the Squire
"I suppose the English of all this is, you want me to take him?" said the squire.
"Throth, an' your honour, that's just it—if your honour would be plazed."
"What can he do?"
"Anything, your honour."
"That means nothing, I suppose," said the squire.
"Oh, no, sir. Everything, I mane, that you would desire him to do."