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