Thomas Colooney, of Banmayroo, was called, and not usually being present, the name would be passed on, from post to post, till it swelled into a general shout of Colooney. "Tom Colooney, you're wanted; Tom, run for it, man, there's a price bid for you! Here's Mickey, his brother, maybe he'll do as well." And so on; all this accompanied by shouts of laughter, and a running fire of jokes, which, being in the vernacular, was lost to us. At last the real Colooney was found, maybe eating his dinner of potatoes, maybe discussing his poteen with a friend--sometimes engaged in the domestic duties of washing his shirt or his small-clothes, fitting a new crown to his hat, or a sole to his brogues--whatever his occupation, he was urged forward by his friends, and the public, with many a push, drive, and even a kick, into our presence, where, from the turmoil, uproar, and confusion, he appeared to have fought his way by main force, and very often, indeed, this was literally the fact, as his bleeding nose, torn coat, and bare head attested. "Thomas Colooney--are you the man?" asked one of our Irish officers of the staff. "Yis, yer honor, I'm that same!" "You've come here, Colooney, to offer yourself as a volunteer in the cause of your country?" Here a yell of "Ireland for ever!" was always raised by the bystanders, which drowned the reply in its enthusiasm, and the examination went on: "You'll be true and faithful to that cause till you secure for your country the freedom of America and the happiness of France? Kiss the cross. Are you used to fire-arms?" "Isn't he?--maybe not! I'll be bound he knows a musket from a mealy pratie!" Such and such like were the comments that rang on all sides, so that the modest "Yis, sir" of the patriot was completely lost. "Load that gun, Tom," said the officer. Here Colooney, deeming that so simple a request must necessarily be only a cover for something underhand--a little clever surprise or so--takes up the piece in a very gingerly manner, and examines it all round, noticing that there is nothing, so far as he can discover, unusual nor uncommon about it. "Load that gun, I say." Sharper and more angrily is the command given this time. "Yis, sir, immediately." And now Tom tries the barrel with the ramrod, lest there should be already a charge there--a piece of forethought that is sure to be loudly applauded by the public, not the less so because the impatience of the French officers is making itself manifest in various ways. At length he rams down the cartridge, and returns the ramrod; which piece of adroitness, if done with a certain air of display and flourish, is unfailingly saluted by another cheer. He now primes and cocks the piece, and assumes a look of what he believes to be most soldier-like severity.