THE DETECTIVE SINGS, FIGHTS, AND DANCES HIMSELF INTO POPULARITY.
The Sheridan House, Patrick Dormer, proprietor, situated in Centre
Street, Pottsville, was somewhat celebrated in annals of the town, and
its reputation among the inhabitants by no means doubtful or uncertain.
While in some regards the tavern boasted entire respectability, in
certain others it bore a name far from enviable. Its isolated honors
were due to Mrs. Dormer; its many dishonors to her physically gigantic
but morally erratic lord and master, and the calling he followed. Many
were the drunken brawls and midnight orgies transpiring beneath its
steep roof and within its tawny brick walls; but against the lady of the
house nothing could be truthfully charged—except she was Dormer’s wife.
The edifice was neither private residence nor hotel, but a compound of
the two. Three stories in height, having a long, low extension in its
rear, lighted by a skylight, and in which was located the
well-patronized ten-pin alley; the basement of the main structure was
employed as dining-room, kitchen, and laundry, and the first, or
business floor, front, for saloon purposes. Just back of the latter was
a card-playing and bagatelle division. Entering from the street, the
first place to the southward, or right hand of the visitor, was the bar,
the counter of which extended as far as the partition dividing the
tap-room proper from the small parlor. In the last named apartment were
stands and chairs for card-players, and the bagatelle table. From this
sitting room admission was found to a gallery, or small balcony,
overlooking the ball-alley and from which spectators might watch the
progress of the game going on below. Leaving the same corridor, or
hallway, a staircase led to the sleeping and other apartments of the
second story. There were two approaches to the house from the street,
one at the south and right hand, penetrating to the rooms above-stairs,
without troubling people in the public places, and the other at the
centre, reaching directly to the bar room. The latter was a capacious,
comfortable affair, and the supply of drinkables in cut-glass decanters,
and beer, ale, and porter on draught, always quite large, if not select
as to quality and brand. The patronage extended to the saloon was
miscellaneous, but apparently very profitable to the keeper.
When McKenna paused before the house, from the interior came sounds of
rude music, evidently emanating from some discordant and
faultily-fingered violin. He succeeded, however, in recognizing an air
to which he had tripped many a jig in the old country. Considering for a
moment the course he should take, the detective gave his tangled locks
an extra twist, stuck his hat on one side of his head, rolled unsteadily
up to the door, fumbled awkwardly with the knob, finally turned it, and
stood in the bar room. The picture then presented to his eye was
considered not uncommon to behold in the mining district, yet rather
striking to and never to be forgotten by an uninitiated spectator. The
place exposed to view was about half filled with men, the majority of
whom were clad in rough attire—somewhat different from the miner’s
shifting clothes, however—and, with their companions, stood and sat
around a sprinkling of citizens, mechanics, street laborers, and others.
Pat Dormer, towering high above all, and whose form the detective was
not slow to single out and know, through Jennings’ description, seemed
to be making himself actively useful outside, conversing glibly with his
customers, while his spouse, fresh-faced, short in figure, and matronly
looking, stood behind the counter, dispensing with steady hand, ready
smile, and pleasant word the various stimulants in demand by her
patrons.
In one corner, uneasily perched at the top of an empty whisky
barrel—stolid of eye and face, frowzy-haired, low-browed, stunted in
body, long of arm, and crooked spined—was the spasmodic little fiddler,
drawing away industriously at his bow, his sallow cheek resting
caressingly on the old violin, and producing semi-musical tones not so
easily understood as entering into the composition of that frolicsome
piece, called “The Devil’s Dream.” With one big, boot-clad foot he kept
time irregularly against the staves forming part of his throne.
[Illustration: _“He struck an attitude and without further prelude began
his best Irish break-down.”_]
All in the saloon were perfect strangers to McKenna, but that made no
difference. He staggered about near the threshold for an instant, while
he mentally measured the people in whose company he was, and made a
hurried inventory of the immediate surroundings; then, appearing to
gather inspiration from the lively squeak of the fiddle, he advanced to
the middle of the floor, where remained a few square yards of vacant
space, struck an attitude, and, without further prelude, begun his best
Irish break-down. The steps were nimble, well chosen, emphasized with
heel and toe, and, despite his assumed state of semi-intoxication, the
time was fairly kept with the measure of the tune. Dormer looked upon
the strange intruder, at first, as though undecided whether he should
toss him outside his door, as he would a mangy cur, or applaud his
terpsichorean performance. Then he gradually absorbed the magnetism of
the dance, and the music made by feet and bow and string, and, seating
himself on a convenient chair, held his face between his two brawny
hands, the elbows resting on his knees, and interestedly scanned
McKenna’s movements, keeping the rhythm, meanwhile, by swaying his broad
shoulders from side to side. The agile shuffling evidently gave him
pleasure, and, turning to the sleepy musician he loudly ordered him to
“play fasther!” The request was instantly obeyed, and quicker and
quicker came the inspiriting notes, faster and faster were the manœuvres
of the dance executed, and the more fantastically the dancer turned and
whirled, and threw out leg and arm, in gesticulations more grotesque
than graceful.
“Nae cotillion brent new frae France,
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,
Put life and mettle in his heels.”
It was not long before every occupant of the place, Mrs. Dormer
inclusive, took up the measure and, while none but the central personage
actually indulged in a reel, beat time to the chords the violinist
touched.
Dormer, as usual, was somewhat overcome by liquor, but arose at the
conclusion of the jig, advanced to McKenna, who stood, for a few
seconds, almost exhausted by his exertions, took the detective by the
hand and warmly welcomed him to the place, saying:
“Very good! Very good! Be the sowl of me great-grandfather! I’ve niver
seen such a jigger since the days of jolly Dan Carey! Walk up, stranger,
an’ have a sup of the best in the house; an’ be the same token, let
everybody else take somethin’ at my cost! I am greatly plazed, that I
am, to recave such iligant company!”
“Av coorse I hev no objection in the worruld,” answered McKenna,
returning Dormer’s strong grasp with interest, “wid the understandin’,
if it be quite convanient, that I’m to give all of yez a bit of a song
afther the wettin’ of me whistle!”
“Sure, an’ a stave or so of a song is jist what we’re afther the
wantin’,” responded a man the operative had heard called Kelly.
The drinks were prepared by Mrs. Dormer with even more than her usual
dexterity. Then the uncanny fiddler vacated his barrel-head, McKenna
assumed his place, hat on head, arms akimbo, and, without any
accompaniment, gave the following ballad:
“Pat Dolan, it’s my Christian name,
Yes, an’ my surname too, sir;
An’ oft you’ve listened to me sthrane,
I’ll tell you somethin’ new, sir!
In Cavan-town, where we sat down,
Our Irish hearts to inspire,
There’s bould recruits an’ undaunted yout’s,
An’ they’r led by Mollie Maguire!
CHORUS.
“With my riggadum du, an’ to h—l wid the crew
Wouldn’t help to free our nation;
When I look back, I count ’em slack,
Wouldn’t join our combination!
“Said Mollie to her darlin’ sons,
‘What tyrant shall we tumble?
That filthy tribe we can’t abide,
They rob both meek and humble;
There is one Bell, a child of h—l,
An’ a Magistrate in station,
Let lots be drew an’ see which av you
Will tumble him to damnation!’ —CHORUS.
“The lot’s now cast, the sentence passed,
I scorn to tell a lie, sir!
I got my chance, it wur no blank;
I wur glad to win the prize, sir!
To swate Bill Cooney’s I did repair,
To meet the parson, Bell, sir!
At his brain I took me aim,
Sayin’ ‘Come down, ye fin’ o’ h—l, sir!’ —CHORUS.
“Those Orangemen, they gathered then,
An’ swore they’d kill us all, sir!
For their frien’ Bell, who lately fell,
An’ got a terrible fall, sir!
But Mollie’s sons, wid swords an’ guns,
Wid pikes—pitchforks—glancin’,
Those bould recruits an’ undaunted yout’s,
Stepped into the field just prancin’. —CHORUS.
“Those Orangemen, they all stood then,
To fight they thought it a folly;
They’d rather run an’ save their lives,
An’ leave the field to Mollie!
Altho’ I’m in a foreign land,
From the cause I’ll ne’er retire,
May heaven smile on every chil’
That belongs to Mollie Maguire! —CHORUS.
“One night as I lay upon me bed,
I heard a terrible rattle;
Who wor it but Bell, come back from h—l,
To fight another battle!
Then at his brain I took me aim—
He vanished off in fire—
An’ as he went the air he rent
Sayin’, ‘I’m conquered by Mollie Maguire!’ —CHORUS.
“Now I’m in America,
An’ that’s a free nation!
I generally sit an’ take my sip
Far from a police station!
Four dollars a day—its not bad pay—
An’ the boss he likes me well, sir!
But little he knows that I’m the man
That shot that fin’ o’ h—l, sir!
CHORUS.
“Wid me riggadum du—an’ to h—l wid the crew
Wouldn’t fight to free our nation,
When I look back I count ’em slack
Wouldn’t join our combination!”
During the progress of the ditty—the air of which no description can do
justice to—the audience, the members of which had gradually drawn nigh
the singer, joined in the refrain with a strength of lung and depth of
voice causing the casements to rattle and the air to resound. The
enthusiasm evolved was so intense and found such loud vent, that some
moments necessarily elapsed before quiet was so far restored as to
permit McKenna to make himself understood, after descending once more to
the floor, as wanting the friends present to “stand furninst the bar an’
have a noggin of poteen wid him!” The request, when fairly heard, was
readily complied with.
It was very soon revealed to the acute senses of the operative that he
had made an impression which could not well fail in being useful to him
in the future. The effect, in the landlord’s case, was not to be
misunderstood, and he, Jennings had said, was a “captain among the
Sleepers,” or Mollies. The overgrown fellow was zealous in his
openly-expressed, newly-awakened regard for the stranger, and after
hearing some sentimental and comical songs, seated himself by McKenna’s
side and entered upon a course of minute inquiry as to the detective’s
nativity, residence, last occupation, business in the mines, etc. Mrs.
Dormer, in the meantime, attended to the drinks, and was not long in
perceiving that their visitor—the lion of the evening, in fact—had some
money with him, and was, sailor-like, dispensing it freely for the
gratification of her guests. Dormer, on his part, was soon in possession
of the fact that McKenna was from Colorado—but latest from New
York—looking for work, after which he proposed a trial at cards in the
back sitting-room, honoring the stranger by choosing him as his partner.
Kelly and a scowling, heavy-set, large-boned man, named Frazer, were to
be pitted against them. It was euchre that they entered upon, the stakes
being refreshments for the four. The game progressed peacefully, Dormer
and his friend at first gaining some advantages, but the landlord soon
losing his little remaining wit, with accession of more whisky, they
began to fall off in the winnings. McKenna was quick to see plentiful
cause for this ill-success. Frazer, when dealing, passed himself six
cards instead of the proper number, and played other tricks generally
classed as among cheats and frauds. The operative seized Frazer’s hand
and exposed the deceit to the gaze of his companions, denouncing the
swindler in no measured terms. The game was broken up; Dormer was raving
furiously, and all hands returned to the bar, where many of its former
occupants still remained. Once there, Frazer threw off his coat, and
challenged his accuser to fight him, saying:
“I’ll maul the sod wid any cowardly bog-trotter in sivin counties that
says I chate at cards!”
[Illustration: _“I’ll bate ye fairly, an’ the coat on me back at
that!”_]
McKenna, in spite of the liquor he had been compelled to imbibe,
still retained his mental faculties and physical strength in
perfection—although, following the scheme he had started, he
pretended to be more deeply intoxicated than when he first made his
appearance at Dormer’s—and he scornfully looked upon his opponent’s
portly form as he defiantly responded:
“Do ye think, fur wan moment, that I’m afraid of the likes of you? Ye
may live to larn better. I’ll bate ye fairly, an’ wid the coat on me
back, at that!”
The detective tossed only his hat aside and squared himself pluckily,
while Dormer volunteered to act as his second, giving the word to his
friends, who cheered lustily for the stranger.
Mrs. Dormer had disappeared at the first signs of a rupture, and the bar
took care of itself.
Kelly seconded Frazer. The ring was formed and the two men entered it,
Frazer confident in his great strength and the detective relying upon
some experience in the manly art of self-defense. The contest commenced.
At the outset McKenna acted purely on the defensive, only seeking to
throw off or evade Frazer’s many unskillful but heavy strokes. He
desired to study his antagonist’s tactics and test his muscle before
using offensive measures. The result was, at the end of a protracted
round, the smaller sparrer was dropped to the floor by a sledge-hammer
blow, fair on the ear. First blood and first knock-down were claimed for
the heavy-weight. But these were all he secured to boast of during the
continuance of the fight—excepting severe punishment—as McKenna carried
off the honors in five consecutive rounds, at the close of all of which
he deftly sent his opponent to the earth, each time with a new wound of
some sort to remember him by. Between the bouts Dormer would take him to
their corner, place spirits to his principal’s lips, sponge off his face
and arms in regular prize-ring fashion, and return him in due season for
more work. The opposing man was equally well served by Kelly, but, after
so many fast-following and disastrous defeats, his right eye being fully
closed and useless, and the other badly damaged, Frazer could not be
coaxed or driven to come forward to the mark again. Then his backers
gave him up, and Kelly took him away, a badly whipped and quite
crest-fallen bully. Victory was proclaimed by Dormer for McKenna, and
the Pottsville Giant was in great glee, stroking the shoulder of his
new-discovered pet and making grimaces that he intended to be pleasing,
but which were more like demoniacal grins than smiles. Dormer shouted as
Frazer went out:
“Good! Good! for me laddy-buck from the West! He’s the true grit from
head to toe! An’, hereafter, if anybody in Schuylkill County jist wants
to bother wid him, they must deal wid Pat Dormer fust! An’ he’s no
dawshy infant!”
“I’ll have the laste taste of gin in mine!” said McKenna, “an’ I belave
all here present will join us in drinkin’ confusion to all mane scuts
and chates!”
The sentiment was applaudingly echoed and the drinks very quickly
absorbed.
Among others, one whom McKenna had heard called Tom Hurley, came up and
congratulated the victor, hoping he had received no serious hurts.
“Oh! nothing but a wee flea-bite on me smeller,” answered McKenna,
“which by the mornin’ will be all correct again! A scrimmage like this
every avenin’ in the wake, would only jist give me jints nadeful
exercise!”
Thus ended the detective’s first experience in the amateur prize-ring.
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