STORIES BY ENGLISH AUTHORS
IRELAND
| The Gridiron | By Samuel Lover |
| The Emergency Men | By George H. Jessop |
| A Lost Recruit | By Jane Barlow |
| The Rival Dreamers | By John Banim |
| Neal Malone | By William Carleton |
| The Banshee | Anonymous |
THE GRIDIRON
BY SAMUEL LOVER
A CERTAIN old gentleman in the west of Ireland, whose love of theridiculous quite equalled his taste for claret and fox-hunting, waswont, upon festive occasions, when opportunity offered, to amuse hisfriends by drawing out one of his servants, exceedingly fond of whathe termed, his “thravels,” and in whom a good deal of whim, some queerstories, and, perhaps more than all, long and faithful services hadestablished a right of loquacity. He was one of those few trusty andprivileged domestics who, if his master unheedingly uttered a rash thingin a fit of passion, would venture to set him right. If the squire said,“I’ll turn that rascal off,” my friend Pat would say, “Throth you won’t,sir;” and Pat was always right, for if any altercation arose upon the“subject-matter in hand,” he was sure to throw in some good reason,either from former services—general good conduct—or the delinquent’s“wife and children,” that always turned the scale.
But I am digressing. On such merry meetings as I have alluded to, themaster, after making certain “approaches,” as a military man would say,as the preparatory steps in laying siege to some extravaganza of hisservant, might, perchance, assail Pat thus: “By the by, Sir John”(addressing a distinguished guest), “Pat has a very curious story, whichsomething you told me to-day reminds me of. You remember, Pat” (turningto the man, evidently pleased at the notice thus paid to himself)—“youremember that queer adventure you had in France?”
“Throth I do, sir,” grins forth Pat.
“What!” exclaims Sir John, in feigned surprise, “was Pat ever inFrance?”
“Indeed he was,” cries mine host; and Pat adds, “Ay, and farther, plaseyour honour.”
“I assure you, Sir John,” continues mine host, “Pat told me a story oncethat surprised me very much, respecting the ignorance of the French.”
“Indeed!” rejoined the baronet; “really, I always supposed the French tobe a most accomplished people.”
“Throth, then, they’re not, sir,” interrupts Pat.
“Oh, by no means,” adds mine host, shaking his head emphatically.
“I believe, Pat, ’twas when you were crossing the Atlantic?” says themaster, turning to Pat with a seductive air, and leading into the “fulland true account” (for Pat had thought fit to visit North Amerikay, for“a raison he had,” in the autumn of the year ninety-eight).
“Yes, sir,” says Pat, “the broad Atlantic”—a favourite phrase of his,which he gave with a brogue as broad, almost, as the Atlantic itself.
“It was the time I was lost in crassin’ the broad Atlantic, a-comin’home,” began Pat, decoyed into the recital; “whin the winds began toblow, and the saw to rowl, that you’d think the Colleen Dhas (that