It was some hours before we went to sleep, he plying me with questions about my life, which seemed to interest him greatly, and I returning in kind.
“My Pa's dead,” said Andy. “He came from a part of Ireland where they are all weavers. We're kinder poor relations here. Aunt Crawford's sick, and Ma keeps house. But Uncle Crawford's good, an' lets me go to Charlotte Town with him sometimes.”
I recall that he also boasted some about his big brothers, who were away just then.
Andy was up betimes in the morning, to see us start. But we didn't start, because Mr. Crawford insisted that the white mare should have a half day's rest. Andy, being hustled off unwillingly to the “Old Field” school, made me go with him. He was a very headstrong boy.
I was very anxious to see a school. This one was only a log house in a poor, piny place, with a rabble of boys and girls romping at the door. But when they saw us they stopped. Andy jumped into the air, let out a war-whoop, and flung himself into the midst, scattering them right and left, and knocking one boy over and over. “I'm Billy Buck!” he cried. “I'm a hull regiment o' Rangers. Let th' Cherokees mind me!”
“Way for Sandy Andy!” cried the boys. “Where'd you get the new boy, Sandy?”
“His name's Davy,” said Andy, “and his Pa's goin' to fight the Cherokees. He kin lick tarnation out'n any o' you.”
Meanwhile I held back, never having been thrown with so many of my own kind.
“He's shot painters and b'ars,” said Andy. “An' skinned 'em. Kin you lick him, Smally? I reckon not.”
Now I had not come to the school for fighting. So I held back. Fortunately for me, Smally held back also. But he tried skilful tactics.