ple of pound of rashers,' said Andy afterwards.
'Before the gintlemen was half done, he was picking his long yellow
teeth wid a pin, an' discoorsin' 'em as impident as if he was a
gintleman himself, the spalpeen!'

All unwitting of the storm gathering in the person of the cook, Mr.
Bunting did indulge in some free and easy reflections upon Britishers in
general, and the present company in particular; also of the same cook's
attendance during their meal.

'Now I guess we free-born Americans don't be above having our helps to
eat with us; we ain't poor and proud, as that comes to. But I'll see ye
brought down to it, or my name's not Zack Bunting. It tickles me to see
aristocrats like ye at work--rael hard work, to take the consait out of
ye; and if I was this feller,' glancing at Andy, 'I'd make tracks if ye
didn't give me my rights, smart enough.'

The glow in the Irish servant's eyes was not to be mistaken.

'I guess I've riled you a bit,' added the Yankee wonderingly.

'An' what's my rights, sir, if yer honour would be plasin' to tell me?'
asked Andy, with mock obsequiousness; 'for I donno of a single one this
minit, barrin' to do what my master bids me.'

'Because I calc'late you've been raised in them mean opinions, an' to
think yerself not as good flesh an' blood as the aristocrats that keep
you in bondage.'

'Come now,' interrupted Sam Holt, 'you shut up, Mr. Bunting. It's
no bondage to eat one's dinner afterwards; and he'll be twice as
comfortable.'

'That's thrue,' said Andy; 'I never yet could ate my bit in presence of
the quality; so that's one right I'd forgive; and as for me--the likes
of _me_--bein' as good blood as the Masther Wynns of Dunore, I'd as soon
think the Yankee was himself.'

With sovereign contempt, Andy turned his back on Mr. Bunting, and
proceeded to cook his dinner.

'Wal, it's the first time I see a feller's dander riz for tellin' him
he's as good as another,' remarked Zack, sauntering in the wake of the
others towards the unfinished shanty. 'I reckon it's almost time for me
to make tracks to hum; the ole woman will be lookin' out. But I say,
stranger, what are you going to do with that heaver meadow below on the
creek? It's a choice slice of pasture that.'

'Cut the grass in summer,' replied Sam Holt, tolerably sure of what was
coming.

'I've as fine a red heifer,' said the Yankee confidentially, 'as ever
was milked, and I'd let you have it, being a new-comer, and not up to