When Andy grew up to 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 herds 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'—nothing comes wrong to him."
"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."
To every one of these assurances on his mother's part Andy made a bow and a scrape.
"Can he take care of horses?"—"The best of care, sir," said the mother, while the miller, who was standing behind the squire waiting for orders, made a grimace at Andy, who was obliged to cram his face to his hat to hide the laugh, which he could hardly smother from being heard, as well as seen.
"Let him come, then, and help in the stables, and we'll see what he can do."—"May the Lord—"
"That'll do—there, now go."—"Oh, sure, but I'll pray for you, and—"
"Will you go?"—"And may angels make your honour's bed this blessed night, I pray!"
"If you don't go, your son shan't come."