Andy grew up in mischief and the admiration of his mammy; 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 all occasions to those who would accept them; but _they_ were only the persons who had not already proved Andy's peculiar powers.
There was a farmer hard by in this happy state of ignorance, named Owen Doyle, or, as he was familiarly called, _Owny na Coppal_, or, "Owen of the Horses," because he bred many of these animals, and sold them at the neighbouring fairs; and Andy one day offered his services to Owny when he was in want of some one to drive up a horse to his house from a distant "bottom," as low grounds by a river-side are called in Ireland.
"Oh, he's wild, Andy, and you'd never be able to ketch him," said Owny.
"Troth, an' I'll engage I'll ketch him if you'll let me go. I never seen the horse I couldn't ketch, sir," said Andy.
"Why, you little spridhogue, if he took to runnin' over the long bottom, it 'ud be more than a day's work for you to folly him."
"Well, you're a willin' brat, anyhow; and so go on, and God speed you!" said Owny.
"Just gi' me a wisp o' hay an' a han'ful iv oats," said Andy, "if I should have to coax him."
"Sartinly," said Owny, who entered the stable and came forth with the articles required by Andy, and a halter for the horse also.
"Now, take care," said Owny, "that you are able to ride that horse if you get on him."
"Oh, never fear, sir. I can ride owld Lanty Gubbins' mule betther nor any o' the boys on the common, and he couldn't throw me th' other day, though he kicked the shoes av him."
"After that you may ride anything," said Owny; and indeed it was true; for Lanty's mule, which fed on the common, being ridden slily by all the young vagabonds in the neighbourhood, had become such an adept in the art of getting rid of his troublesome customers that it might well be considered a feat to stick on him.
"Now take great care of him, Andy, my boy," said the farmer.
"Don't be afeared, sir," said Andy, who started on his errand in that peculiar pace which is elegantly called a "sweep's trot;" and as the river lay between Owny Doyle's and the bottom, and was too deep for Andy to ford at that season, he went round by Dinny Dowling's mill, where a small wooden bridge crossed the stream.