At the next corner he paused, a little uncertain apparently as to which way to go, then turned to the left and was lost.  I have never seen nor heard of him since.

The Mighty Rourke

When I first met him he was laying the foundation for a small dynamo in the engine-room of the repair shop at Spike, and he was most unusually loud in his protestations and demands.  He had with him a dozen Italians, all short, swarthy fellows of from twenty-five to fifty years of age, who were busy bringing material from a car that had been pushed in on the side-track next to the building.  This was loaded with crushed stone, cement, old boards, wheelbarrows, tools, and the like, all of which were to be used in the labor that he was about to undertake.  He himself was standing in the doorway of the shop where the work was to be conducted, coat off, sleeves rolled up, and shouting with true Irish insistence, “Come, Matt!  Come, Jimmie!  Get the shovels, now!  Get the picks!  Bring some sand here!  Bring some stone!  Where’s the cement, now?  Where’s the cement?  Jasus Christ!  I must have some cement!  What arre ye all doin’?  What do ye think ye’re up here fer?  Hurry, now, hurry!  Bring the cement!” and then, having concluded this amazing fanfare, calmly turning to gaze about as if he were the only one in the world who had the right to stand still.

More or less oppressed with life myself at the time, I was against all bosses, and particularly against so seemingly a vicious one as this.  “What a slave driver!” I thought.  “What a brute!” And yet I remember thinking that he was not exactly unpleasant to look at, either—­quite the contrary.  He was medium in height, thick of body and neck, with short gray hair and mustache, and bright, clear, twinkling Irish gray eyes, and he carried himself with an air of unquestionable authority.  It was much as if he had said, “I am the boss here”; and, indeed, he was.  Is it this that sends the Irish to rule as captains of hundreds the world over?

The job he was bossing was not very intricate or important, but it was interesting.  It consisted of digging a trench ten by twelve feet, and shaping it up with boards into a “form,” after which concrete was to be mixed and poured in, and some iron rods set to fasten the engine to—­an engine bed, no less.  It was not so urgent but that it might have been conducted with far less excitement, but what are you to do when you are naturally excitable, love to make a great noise, and feel that things are going forward whether they are or not?  Plainly this particular individual loved noise and a great stir.  So eager was he to have done with it, no matter what it was or where, that he was constantly trotting to and fro, shouting, “Come, Matt!  Come, Jimmie!  Hurry, now, bring the shovels!  Bring the picks!” and occasionally bursting forth with a perfect avalanche of orders.  “Up with it!  Down with it!  Front with it!  Back with it!  In with it!  Out with it!” all coupled with his favorite expletive, “Jasus Christ,” which was as innocent of evil, I subsequently came to know, as a prayer.  In short, he was simply wild Irish, and that was all there was to him—­a delightful specimen, like Namgay Doola.