"Hurra for the Kankakee! Give it to us, Tommy!" cried an enthused voice between verses. "Now give it to the Major!" And the song went on:-- "There's Major Blowney leads the van, As crack a shot as an Irishman,-- For its the duck is a tin decoy That his owld shotgun can't destroy!" And a half a dozen jubilant palms patted the Major's shoulders, and his ruddy, good-natured face beamed with delight. "Now give it to the rest of 'em, Tommy!" chuckled the Major. And the song continued:-- "And along wid 'Hank' is Mick Maharr, And Barney Pince, at 'The Shamrock' bar-- There's Barney Pinch, wid his heart so true; And the Andrews Brothers they'll go too." "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."