"O, the Andrews Brothers, they'll be there, Wid good se-gyars and wine to sphare,-- 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 leaned 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 on 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 was fortunate enough--despite the contrary opinion on that point of his wretchedly poor parents--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:--