Not very many years ago the writer was for
some months stationed at South Bend, a thriving
little city of northern Indiana. Its population is
mainly on the one side of the St. Joseph River, but
quite a respectable fraction thereof takes its
industrial way to the opposite shore, and there gains an
audience and a hearing in the rather imposing
growth and hurly-burly of its big manufactories,
and the consequent rapid appearance of multitudinous
neat cottages, tenement houses and business
blocks. A stranger entering South Bend proper on
any ordinary day, will be at some loss to account for
its prosperous appearance--its flagged and bouldered
streets--its handsome mercantile blocks, banks, and
business houses generally. Reasoning from cause to
effect, and seeing but a meager sprinkling of people
on the streets throughout the day, and these seeming,
for the most part, merely idlers, and in nowise
accessory to the evident thrift and opulence of their
surroundings, the observant stranger will be puzzled
at the situation. But when evening comes, and the
outlying foundries, sewing-machine, wagon, plow,
and other "works," together with the paper-mills and all the
nameless industries--when the operations
of all these are suspended for the day, and the
workmen and workwomen loosed from labor--then,
as this vast army suddenly invades and overflows
bridge, roadway, street and lane, the startled stranger
will fully comprehend the why and wherefore
of the city's high prosperity. And, once acquainted
with the people there, the fortunate sojourner will
find no ordinary culture and intelligence, and, as
certainly, he will meet with a social spirit and a
whole-souled heartiness that will make the place a
lasting memory. The town, too, is the home of
many world-known people, and a host of local
celebrities, the chief of which latter class I found,
during my stay there, in the person of Tommy Stafford,
or "The Wild Irishman" as everybody called
him.
"Talk of odd fellows and eccentric characters,"
said Major Blowney, my employer, one afternoon,
"you must see our 'Wild Irishman' here before you
say you've yet found the queerest, brightest, cleverest
chap in all your travels. What d'ye say,
Stockford?" And the Major paused in his work of
charging cartridges for his new breech-loading shotgun
and turned to await his partner's response.
Stockford, thus addressed, paused above the
shield-sign he was lettering, slowly smiling as he
dipped and trailed his pencil through the ivory black
upon a bit of broken glass and said, in his deliberate,
half absent-minded way,--"Is it Tommy you're telling
him about?" and then, with a gradual broadening
of the smile, he went on, "Well, I should say so.
Tommy! What's come of the fellow, anyway? I
haven't seen him since his last bout with the mayor,
on his trial for shakin' up that fast-horse man."
"The fast-horse man got just exactly what he
needed, too," said the genial Major, laughing, and
mopping his perspiring brow. "The fellow was
barkin' up the wrong stump when he tackled
Tommy! Got beat in the trade, at his own game,
you know, and wound up by an insult that no Irishman
would take; and Tommy just naturally wore
out the hall carpet of the old hotel with him!"
"And then collared and led him to the mayor's
office himself, they say!"
"Oh, he did!" said the Major, with a dash of
pride in the confirmation; "that's Tommy all over!"
"Funny trial, wasn't it?" continued the ruminating
Stockford.
"Wasn't it though?" laughed the Major. "The
porter's testimony: You see, he was for Tommy,
of course, and on examination testified that the
horseman struck Tommy first. And here Tommy
broke in with: 'He's a-meanin' well, yer Honor, but
he's lyin' to ye--he's lyin' to ye. No livin' man iver
struck me first--nor last, nayther, for the matter o'
that!' And I thought--the--court--would--die!"
continued the Major, in a like imminent state of
merriment.
"Yes, and he said if he struck him first,"
supplemented Stockford, "he'd like to know why the
horseman was 'wearin' all the black eyes, and the
blood, and the boomps on that head of um!' And
it's that talk that got him off with so light a fine!"
"As it always does," said the Major, coming to
himself abruptly and looking at his watch. "Stock,
you say you're not going along with our duck-shooting
party this time? The old Kankakee is just lousy
with 'em this season!"
"Can't go possibly," said Stockford, "not on
account of the work at all, but the folks ain't just
as well as I'd like to see them, and I'll stay here till
they're better. Next time I'll try and be ready for
you. Going to take Tommy, of course?"
"Of course! Got to have 'The Wild Irishman'
with us! I'm going around to find him now." Then
turning to me the Major continued, "Suppose you
get on your coat and hat and come along? It's the
best chance you'll ever have to meet Tommy. It's
late anyhow, and Stockford'll get along without you.
Come on."
"Certainly," said Stockford; "go ahead. And you
can take him ducking, too, if he wants to go."
"But he doesn't want to go--and won't go,"
replied the Major with a commiserative glance at me.
"Says he doesn't know a duck from a poll-parrot--
nor how to load a shotgun--and couldn't hit a house
if he were inside of it and the door shut. Admits
that he nearly killed his uncle once, on the other side
of a tree, with a squirrel runnin' down it. Don't
want him along!"
When I reached the street with the genial Major,
he gave me this advice: "Now, when you meet Tommy, you mustn't
take all he says for dead earnest,
and you mustn't believe, because he talks loud, and
in italics every other word, that he wants to do all
the talking and won't be interfered with. That's the
way he's apt to strike folks at first--but it's their
mistake, not his. Talk back to him--controvert him
whenever he's aggressive in the utterance of his
opinions, and if you're only honest in the announcement
of your own ideas and beliefs, he'll like you all
the better for standing by them. He's quick-tempered,
and perhaps a trifle sensitive, so share your
greater patience with him, and he'll pay you back by
fighting for you at the drop of the hat. In short, he's
as nearly typical of his gallant country's brave,
impetuous, fun-loving race as one man can be."
"But is he quarrelsome?" I asked.
"Not at all. There's the trouble. If he'd only
quarrel there'd be no harm done. Quarreling's
cheap, and Tommy's extravagant. A big blacksmith
here, the other day, kicked some boy out of his
shop, and Tommy, on his cart, happened to be passing
at the time; and he just jumped off without a
word, and went in and worked on that fellow for
about three minutes, with such disastrous results that
they couldn't tell his shop from a slaughter-house;
paid an assault and battery fine, and gave the boy a
dollar besides, and the whole thing was a positive
luxury to him. But I guess we'd better drop the
subject, for here's his cart, and here's Tommy. Hi!
there, you 'Fardown' Irish Mick!" called the Major,
in affected antipathy, "been out raiding the honest
farmers' hen-roosts again, have you?"
We had halted at a corner grocery and produce
store, as I took it, and the smooth-faced, shaven-
headed man in woolen shirt, short vest, and suspenderless
trousers so boisterously addressed by the
Major, was just lifting from the back of his cart
a coop of cackling chickens.
"Arrah! ye blasted Kerryonian!" replied the
handsome fellow, depositing the coop on the curb
and straightening his tall, slender figure; "I were
jist thinkin' of yez and the ducks, and here ye come
quackin' into the prisence of r'yalty, wid yer canvas-
back suit upon ye and the schwim-skins bechuxt yer
toes! How air yez, anyhow--and air we startin' for
the Kankakee by the nixt post?"
"We're to start just as soon as we get the boys
together," said the Major, shaking hands. "The
crowd's to be at Andrews' by four, and it's fully that
now; so come on at once. We'll go 'round by Munson's
and have Hi send a boy to look after your
horse. Come; I want to introduce my friend
here to you, and we'll all want to smoke and jabber
a little in appropriate seclusion. Come on." And
the impatient Major had linked arms with his hesitating
ally and myself, and was turning the corner
of the street.
"It's an hour's work I have yet wid the squawkers,"
mildly protested Tommy, still hanging back
and stepping a trifle high; "but, as one Irishman
would say til another, 'Ye're wrong, but I'm wid
ye!' "
And five minutes later the three of us had joined
a very jolly party in a snug back room, with
"The chamber walls depicted all around
With portraitures of huntsman, hawk, and hound,
And the hurt deer;"
and where, as well, drifted over the olfactory
intelligence a certain subtle, warm-breathed aroma, that
genially combated the chill and darkness of the day
without, and, resurrecting long-dead Christmases,
brimmed the grateful memory with all comfortable
cheer.
A dozen hearty voices greeted the appearance of
Tommy and the Major, the latter adroitly pushing
the jovial Irishman to the front, with a mock-heroic
introduction to the general company, at the conclusion
of which Tommy, with his hat tucked under
his left elbow, stood bowing with a grace of pose
and presence Lord Chesterfield might have applauded.
"Gintlemen," said Tommy, settling back upon his
heels and admiringly contemplating the group;
"gintlemen, I congratu-late yez wid a pride that
shoves the thumbs o' me into the arrum-holes of me
weshkit! At the inshtigation of the bowld O'Blowney--
axin' the gintleman's pardon--I am here wid
no silver tongue of illoquence to para-lyze yez, but
I am prisent, as has been ripresinted, to jine wid yez
in a stupendous waste of gunpowder, and duck-
shot, and 'high-wines,' and ham sandwiches, upon
the silvonian banks of the ragin' Kankakee, where
the 'di-dipper' tips ye good-by wid his tail, and the
wild loon skoots like a sky-rocket for his exiled
home in the alien dunes of the wild morass--or, as
Tommy Moore so illegantly describes the blashted
birrud,--
'Away to the dizhmal shwamp he spheeds--
His path is rugged and sore
Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds
And many a fen where the serpent feeds,
And birrud niver flew before--
And niver will fly any more'
if iver he arrives back safe into civilization again--
and I've been in the poultry business long enough to
know the private opinion and personal integrity of
ivery fowl that flies the air or roosts on poles. But,
changin' the subject of my few small remarks here,
and thankin' yez wid an overflowin' heart but a dhry
tongue, I have the honor to propose, gintlemen, long
life and health to ivery mother's son o' yez, and
success to the 'Duck-hunters of Kankakee.' "
"The duck-hunters of the Kankakee!" chorused
the elated party in such musical uproar that for a
full minute the voice of the enthusiastic Major
who was trying to say something--could not be
heard. Then he said:
"I want to propose that theme--'The Duck-
hunters of the Kankakee', for one of Tommy's
improvisations. I move we have a song now from
Tommy on 'The Duck Hunters of the Kankakee.' "
"Hurrah! Hurrah! A song from Tommy," cried
the crowd. "Make us up a song, and put us all into
it! A song from Tommy! A song! A song!"
There was a queer light in the eye of the
Irishman. I observed him narrowly--expectantly. Often
I had read of this phenomenal art of improvised
ballad-singing, but had always remained a little
skeptical in regard to the possibility of such a feat.
Even in the notable instances of this gift as
displayed by the very clever Theodore Hook, I had
always half suspected some prior preparation--some
adroit forecasting of the sequence that seemed the
instant inspiration of his witty verses. Here was
evidently to be a test example, and I was all alert
to mark its minutest detail.
The clamor had subsided, and Tommy had drawn
a chair near to and directly fronting the Major's.
His right hand was extended, closely grasping the
right hand of his friend which he scarce perceptibly,
though measuredly, lifted and let fall throughout the
length of all the curious performance. The voice
was not unmusical, nor was the quaint old ballad-air
adopted by the singer unlovely in the least; simply
a monotony was evident that accorded with the
levity and chance-finish of the improvisation--and
that the song was improvised on the instant I am
certain--though in nowise remarkable, for other
reasons, in rhythmic worth or finish. And while his
smiling auditors all drew nearer, and leant, with
parted lips to catch every syllable, the words of the
strange melody trailed unhesitatingly into the line;
literally, as here subjoined:
"One gloomy day in the airly Fall,
Whin the sunshine had no chance at all--
No chance at all for to gleam and shine
And lighten up this heart of mine:
" 'Twas in South Bend, that famous town,
Whilst I were a-strollin' round and round,
I met some friends and they says to me:
'It's a hunt we'll take on the Kankakee!' "
"Hurrah for the Kankakee! Give it to us,
Tommy!" cried an enthusiastic voice between
verses. "Now give it to the Major!" And the song
went on:
"There's Major Blowney leads the van,
As crack a shot as an Irishman,--
For it's the duck is a tin decoy
That his owld shotgun can't destroy:"
And a half-dozen jubilant palms patted the
Major's shoulders, and his ruddy, good-natured
face beamed with delight. "Now give it to the rest
of 'em, Tommy!" chuckled the Major. And the
song continued:--
"And along wid 'Hank' is Mick Maharr,
And Barney Pince, at 'The Shamrock' bar--
There's Barney Pinch, wid his heart so true;
And the Andrews Brothers they'll go too."
"Hold on, Tommy!" chipped in one of the
Andrews; "you must give 'the Andrews Brothers' a
better advertisement than that! Turn us on a full
verse, can't you?"
"Make 'em pay for it if you do!" said the Major
in an undertone. And Tommy promptly amended.--
"O, the Andrews Brothers, they'll be there,
Wid good se-gyars and wine to sphare,--
They'll treat us here on fine champagne,
And whin we're there they'll treat us again."
The applause here was vociferous, and only
discontinued when a box of Havanas stood open on the
table. During the momentary lull thus occasioned,
I caught the Major's twinkling eyes glancing evasively
toward me, as he leaned whispering some further
instructions to Tommy, who again took up his
desultory ballad, while I turned and fled for the
street, catching, however, as I went, and high above
the laughter of the crowd, the satire of this quatrain
to its latest line.
"But R-R-Riley he'll not go, I guess,
Lest he'd get lost in the wil-der-ness,
And so in the city he will shtop
For to curl his hair in the barber shop."
It was after six when I reached the hotel, but I
had my hair trimmed before I went in to supper.
The style of trimming adopted then I still rigidly
adhere to, and call it "the Tommy Stafford stubble-
crop."
Ten days passed before I again saw the Major.
Immediately upon his return--it was late afternoon
when I heard of it--I determined to take my
evening walk out the long street toward his pleasant
home and call on him there. This I did, and
found him in a wholesome state of fatigue, slippers
and easy chair, enjoying his pipe on the piazza. Of
course, he was overflowing with happy reminiscences
of the hunt--the wood-and-water-craft--
boats--ambushes--decoys, and tramp, and camp,
and so on, without end;--but I wanted to hear him
talk of "The Wild Irishman"--Tommy; and I think,
too, now, that the sagacious Major secretly read my
desires all the time. To be utterly frank with the
reader I will admit that I not only think the Major
divined my interest in Tommy, but I know he did;
for at last, as though reading my very thoughts, he
abruptly said, after a long pause, in which he
knocked the ashes from his pipe and refilled and
lighted it:--"Well, all I know of 'The Wild Irishman'
I can tell you in a very few words--that is,
if you care at all to listen?" And the crafty old
Major seemed to hesitate.
"Go on--go on!" I said eagerly.
"About forty years ago," resumed the Major
placidly, "in the little, old, unheard-of town
Karnteel, County Tyrone, Province Ulster, Ireland,
Tommy Stafford was fortunate enough--despite
the contrary opinion on that point of his wretchedly
poor parents--to be born. And here, again, as I
advised you the other day, you must be prepared for
constant surprises in the study of Tommy's character."
"Go on," I said; "I'm prepared for anything."