Thomas Patrick Gallagher, typical Irish traffic copper, was stationed on
Madison street in Chicago at the point intersected by the River.
One bustling Saturday afternoon, Gallagher held up his hand to halt
traffic for the draw bridge. In front of him was a new handsome limousine
motor car.
While waiting for the bridge to close, a runabout flivver crashed into
the rear end of the handsome car.
Gallagher was on the job promptly and hustled over to the driver of the
flivver.
“Phwat in hal does yez mane by smashing into this handsome car? Haven’t
you got any eyes?” he bellowed at the meek and humble driver, “Are
you crazy? I’ve a good mind to take you down to the headquarters, you
blithering idiot. What’s your name?” continued Gallagher, as he extracted
a pencil and notebook from his pocket, “What is the number of your car?”
The answer came back in typical Gaelic, “Me name is Clancy.”
“Clancy,” replied Gallagher. “Clancy, what part of Ireland are you from,
what county?”
“I am from County Mayo.”
“County Mayo,” continued the traffic officer, “County Mayo, say Clancy,
stay here just a minute till I go ahead to that big car and see why in
the devil he backed into you.”
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