“Wal,” said the boy, “I reckon Uncle Crawford might take you in. And again he mightn't.”
He ran ahead, still swinging the pail. And we, following, came at length to a comfortable-looking farmhouse. As we stopped at the doorway a stout, motherly woman filled it. She held her knitting in her hand.
“You Andy!” she cried, “have you fetched the milk?”
Andy tried to look repentant.
“I declare I'll tan you,” said the lady. “Git out this instant. What rascality have you been in?”
“I fetched home visitors, Ma,” said Andy.
“Visitors!” cried the lady. “What 'll your Uncle Crawford say?” And she looked at us smiling, but with no great hostility.
“Pardon me, Madam,” said my father, “if we seem to intrude. But my mare is tired, and we have nowhere to stay.”
Uncle Crawford did take us in. He was a man of substance in that country,—a north of Ireland man by birth, if I remember right.
I went to bed with the red-headed boy, whose name was Andy Jackson. I remember that his mother came into our little room under the eaves and made Andy say his prayers, and me after him. But when she was gone out, Andy stumped his toe getting into bed in the dark and swore with a brilliancy and vehemence that astonished me.