“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 shpare,—­
  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 leant 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 upon 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—­in spite of the contrary opinion of his wretchedly poor parents—­was fortunate enough 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.”

The Major smiled profoundly and continued:—­