Andy Rooney was a fellow who had the most singularly ingenious knack of doing everything the wrong way. He grew up in his humble Irish home full of mischief to the eyes of every one save his admiring mother. But, to do him justice, he never meant harm in the course of his life, and he was most anxious to offer his services on every occasion to all who would accept them. Here is the account of how Andy first went into service:
When Andy grew up to be what in country parlance is called “a brave lump of a boy,” and his mother thought he was old enough to do something for himself, 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 of 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.”
“I suppose the English of all this is, you want me to take him?” said the squire.
“Throth, an’ your honor, that’s just it—if your honor would be plazed.”
“What can he do?”
“Anything, your honor.”
“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?”