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McCann's camp-fire piloted us to our wagon, at least three miles from the bridge, for he had laid in a good supply of wood during the day; and on our arrival our night horses were tied up, and everything made ready for the night. The next morning we started the herd, but Flood took four of us with him and went back to Big Boggy.
There was haggling and bickering until a price of sixty was agreed upon, and Mr. McCann's heart expanded with satisfaction. "Now, how many shares?" "Want control. Want fifty-one per cent, anyhow. Got 'em?" "Of course." This was not the fact, but Mr. McCann was not addicted to unnecessary facts. He knew where he could get the rest for less than 60.
"All right, old man, glad to have you," said my client. This brought a smile to McCann's face as he got into his boat. We were all standing in the cockpit, save the Celebrity, who was just inside of the cabin door. I had time to note that he was pale, and no more: I must have been pale myself. A few strokes brought the chief to the Maria's stern.
We had a number of harmonized choruses, including several of Moore's melodies, Banim's "Soggarth Aroon," "Native Music," by Lover; McCann's "O'Donnell Aboo!" and others. "Killarney," words by Falconer, music by Balfe, was sung by James McArdle, who had a fine tenor voice. Richard Campbell was our principal humorous singer.
"I will see that you don't lose your place, and I give you my word again that Charles Wrexell Allen has never been aboard this yacht, or at Mohair to my knowledge. What is more, I will prove it to-morrow to your satisfaction." McCann's faith was touching. "Ye're not to say another word, sir," he said, and he stuck out his big hand, which I grasped warmly.
He nodded at one and all, his gold half-moon earrings twinkling in his evident satisfaction with himself and "le bon Père Honoré." The men were silent. Jim McCann's eyes were blurred with tears. The thought of his own six-months boy presented itself in contrast to the small waif in the Canada woods and the dying gypsy mother, nursed by the priest who had christened his own little Billy.
All the same, if them fellers start a row, we'll back you up to the finish! We know you're a gentleman on the baseball field and off it. You've gut the sympathy of every decent man here." "That's right! that's right!" came from all sides of the field. Basil Bearover stepped out from the bench and called McCann's attention. "Play ball, Mike," he said. "We can win, anyhow. Let the umpire alone."
I have heard it suggested that McCann's famous war song "O'Donnell Aboo!" should be adopted as our National Anthem instead of "God Save Ireland," and I have heard of it being given as a finale at Gaelic League concerts. Without doubt it is a fine song, and the air to which it is generally sung is a noble one.
I'll coax McGroarty to drive us down, so you'll have your car and you can bring us back." The district attorney nodded. "Me for McCann's," he muttered. "That's where she went to eat." He rushed off eagerly. Kennedy had no difficulty persuading McGroarty to put his particular studio car at our disposal without an order from Manton or from the director who had called him.
Marilyn rose, laughing now, but still in a high color, conscious perhaps that she had revealed some strong undercurrent of feeling. "If you'll escort me to my dressing room," she said, coaxingly, "and wait until I slip into a skirt and waist, I'll initiate both of you to McCann's across the street.
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