SHORT STORIES.

Otago Witness, Issue 2647, 7 December 1904, Page 51

SHORT STORIES.

OLD DAN I AGGARTY.

By Habebell. (For the Witness.) ' Old Dan Haggarty was one of the queerest persons I ever saw. He was a swagger, andi not a very prepossessing one either. He never looked clean — swaggers very rarely do — and the evident antiquity of his Glothes did not make him look any better. Anyone who was well acquainted with the people in the neighbourhood could usually tell whence at least two or three of the articles which 4ie wore had been obtained. He was tall and spare ; to have been anything else, living as' he did,- would have been, impossible. He belonged to the great - army of the unemployed! ; but in his case, it was from choice. There were plenty of jobs waiting for anyone who cared for them, but he would rather wander round and be a beggar than work for any time. Of course, he was not always unemployed — he had to work or starve sometimes — but he always let everybody know that he considered it very unjust an old man such as he being obliged to work for his living.

One evening after tea he "happened" along to our place. For some rea&on or other he had never honoured us with a visit before. Perhaps it was because the renown of our bulldog, Nero, had travelled far and wide. At anyrate, Nero was now dead, and here was old Dan coming in at our gate, with his blankets on his shoulders, an old black pipe smoking away in his mouth, some very tattered clothing ornamenting his angular person, and a grin of huge dimensions on his face as he confronted my brother, and hoped that "his honor would allow a poor man to rest at his place that night, and would not refuse him a bite." So we gave him- some tea and let him sleep in the barn. Next morning, as Aye were in want of a man, Tom asked him if he'd care to. stay with us as a farm hand).

"Shure now," he answered, "it's little use I'd be on; a farm. I'm old and wake, and my eyes aren't as good as they used to be, though how it is I can't make out, for well do 1 remember that my father and mother were hale and hearty at 85, and I'm only 61. And when they died their sight was as good as ever in 'their young days. I can't make it out at all."

Tom looked at his bleary and bloodshot' eyes, andi thought he knew how it was. But he still asked him to stay, for he thought that a bad worker at a low wage might be better than a good worker at a* high wefge. _So at last Dan. said,- rather reluctantly, for I think his dislike for work was greater than his anxiety that we should not get bad value for our mpney, "Well, p'raps I'll stay for a while. S'pose I won't have to .do much — just potter round and look after things V I've not got enough strength to do much, and my health must be guarded, yer know."

So Dan was installed as our farm hand at a salary a boy would have been ashamed of ; but low as it was I don't believe he was worth it. Then we found) that though he had begun our acquaintanceship by calling Tom "your honor" and me "little missy," he soon dropped down to "Tom" and "Cissie" (which is not my name). But he was not a bad old fellow, and many a story he told us about iis life in "ould Ireland," and his wanderings after he left it. "Dan," we would say, "would you rather live in New Zealand or Ireland?"

Here he would sniff, and) say, "Why, New Zealand's nothing to Ireland, man, nothing at all. In Ireland they wouldn't put a poor old man like me in gaol just because he drank a drop too much. And they wouldn't force a poor old man that has worked hard all his life to turn to and grub gorse in his old age-—w hich was rather an unjust taunt, I think, as we didn't have the care of every old man who happened to pay us a visit ;"and) we had to get some work out of Dan.

But if he waxed indignant at any comparison between New Zealand and Ireland, he had one topic about which he would speak all day: "it was his family. If we hadn't much to do in the evening we merely mentioned his family, and his conversation henceforth was plenteous and edifying.

"Shure," he said, "the ould days in Ireland were the happiest time I've had). We lived in a little ould 'hut in Killarnev. Killarney's a grand place. It's got beautiful big lakes, an' people came to visit them— foine English people,— and they'd want guides to show them the beautiful scenery. So me mother used to send me to be a guide. Once I showed an old gent round the lakes, and told him stories all out of my own head)" (this with great pride), "about giants and fairies and mermaids, just 'cos he seemed to like it. And he had a note-book, and wrote down all I told him, just as if he thought it was true, when all the time I made up every word of it. And he gave me five shillings, and went back to London, and wrote a book, and put every word I'd spoken in it. H© called) it ' Irish my-thol-ogy.' I asked the priest what that meant, and he said it meant fairy tales, so I s'pose the old gent knew I was telling lies.

'"Ocli, shure, though, Kiliarney was a grand place. To be sure, we only liv^d in a mud cabin, and we didn't have a pianner and a lot of books like you've got ; but it -was a grand place all' tlie same. I'd six brothers and two sisters— fine giils, both of them. Ocli, shure, Biddy was a foiner girl than any you'd meet out here. I never knew hex a<ju.al at &.pelliu' nnd

ivritin an' doin' sums". "" Well do I remeinher the day that, the priest .came, down to our cabin/with a big English -dictionary under his arm, and she stood out in the middle of- the ioor,- .and any - w.ord -he'd give- her she could spell." And he laid his - hand on her head, and says he, "My word, Biddy," says ;.he l^"y-pu'reS a . fine -girruL But she died— die'ir' in a, 'consumption., theyear after." Here Dan seemed to be overcome by the memory of his departed sistei*, but soon conquered "his emotion,' and' resumed- his reminiscences. '- -- " Me, other sister- wasn't _so clever, but Bhe was pretty: All '"the 'boys .in the county were" after .Sheila. And She -ifinglish visitors always used to-say 'how pretty she .was. Once a- man came and.st#yed in our ■village for a while. He was^wjiat they -call xm' artist, 'and) he was always dodging round— sketching he called it.' And he saw Sheila, and ne asked her .to let him draw her, and he painted her into a picture "ai.d took it/fiwa^,with him, and hung it up in Borne place called theHoiyal Academy/ and folks came to-sec it, and they said- ne was a genius' . Then the squire'sf ,soa"came; ihome,- - ' furrinV paft-sj . attd^ he ,' wasgreatly lakeii . ;svitfi Slieilajjand wds "going; to "marry .her/ afid got his^ father to say--Ihe'd give qurT?»axents a:'farm"to-:b& .their Jjoyrn. -Bat/slie'ran/away; w?tit-'Bill-=Brady,^ as ' was .^gamekeeper- to the squirej- and Jfchjey -got; I , maimed and cams. oufc'to Austram. .-.AndJlucEgr it w^s for\' her- ".that she Jdidn'i marry* ihe squire's son"; -for .When Ibis father .died; h,e made, ducks aaft- ' "drakes ■ *tf the 'place, and noV he has not, a -roof over his head. But BiU x ßrady itarted,, a shop out in Melbourne, ■• and now he's; worth" fcalf a million." ■ - " • . v "Half million?" we^ asked, incredulously. • s /' . "' - ' ' " " Yes, half a million," he said a good kind fellow, he is.> For-though' Sheila's dead long he's willing to take iae over io live, wit'lr him, or give jno ,a station to manage, „or give me a farm of my own^." • * " Why"&on't you. go, then?" we asked. - "Oh, well, ybu'seej it's.' thisfway. When t gets his letter I'd just, been on the spree,' and my money was run out, «o I couldn't get enough moneyjltopay me" passage, and ihe landlord of "Sh'ef hotel, where I was stoppiu' „ wouldnUr lend it to me, and ■wouldn't even" write over for me, so- I haven't been able to go over.". By this time we were firmly convinced ■that the ability to tell- fairy • tales which iDan's early acquaintance"" with a confiding old gentleman "had fostered had grown with the .yearsj ,so that we "wouldn't /have' been Burpris&taf fD^nc^hadi: told/us/tliat \siis b cpusln^tb^a -dufee. :^^lnjfaet; .as'-hi|'' aifsf-'j-cbnversation^sliowed^ he- did lay- ( clainiVto^ high -connections, -c "-, - '* {"'•" - - -- r - '■'•'"•- , -•""Me brother?^" J. he .'-Said; so clever as x after -me/ father, as* was -a, ..port"Wakee t "Wake- body , (though J 4e" lived.' -to be, 90). tin6i..was "no niatch | for'me-niotlieK.;"We-\vere 'all .over fpiid of 'i our 'glass, and that me . mother' couldn't - abide. If we didn't come, home at once . ;with. ;oiir wages, she'd awayi to the public, "and if- one of jus wex*e there she'd spare neither tongue nqr hands. -Yes, sure jny I Raid mother was a' great fighter."'. " ■ By. this .time it was -growing" dark, so .we . liad to cot Dan's interesting "l'eminiscerices ■ shock. But*^his garrulity was s . never at rfault. \_- On esrfi and every .occasion he, treated us- with "reminiscences' of- his dear" bid home in Ireland. One day he lost his" pipe, aiid'fcis sad lamentations (for hisjiipe was his only luxury) would have (touched a heart of stone. I happened" to"find it, "and after 'quieting certain 'qualms — , *"6r it was not a thing many girls would «iare to handle — I picked it "up and took it iioiue to him. His gratitude was really touching. "Shure," he said, "me sister Biddy couldn't have done more for a man. Why, v Cissie, you're good enough to be an "Irish r'rl. Why, I remembered 'once" — but here remembered that it- was dinner, time, . and ran off to help mother to get it" ready. One day ., after Dan had * 'been at our place about a fortnight, ihe told us at breakfast that he, was thinking of leaving. &?he craze for roaming had come over him ftgain. He iold.us-he^intended €0 go'- to * >he North Island, and then* /work .to" get' friough money to ' take ;him , to- Melbourne./ All -tha€ day he seemed ' preoccupied, and - fct last itold-tis f hat ' he ~was going in the\ ' {horning. So in the morning- we gave' himpis wages- and'; some liinch./to eat on- the' iray,'andjoff he set, ; with his swag, "on" liis ibouldersj Ids" billy "iflT his and his, )>ipe in his "mouth. . That was the. last, we saw of Dan for a time. But we heard about him a good bit ; for some"" people came to our hlace one- day, and among other things we nappenedto mention Dan Haggarty. They Were all very talkative concerning him. Some characterised him as- a "useless loafer-.";"-'others thought he was" "a thieving old drunkard, fit for gaol." While at bur placelie had seemed harmless enough, and we" pondered how he ~cbuld'liavo' obtained such k bad reputation. We, learned that before »c came, to ' our place he" had gone the round of the neighbours and had not jproved too honest. For instance, . when off a place he had not scrupled to jfcoms back after nightfall, "take the" rabbits !«ut of the traps, and even dig up pota : toes. This" sort of petty thieving was, of .course, not worth the reporting, but it Inade them dislike him all the same. --So we Resolved that if he did happen to give -up the journey to Melbourne aiid the.prospect 'of' his wealthy -'brbther-inTlaw's Sieir (as. seemed- likely)'.-and return tio~ o'urplace, -we would not "" .befriend ' him any' more. I One day Tom happened to go over Uf zßellbury, a township about six miles away: jTThere he learned that tEe day. he left 'our |)lace Old Dan had appeared at the hotel at Bellbury, and had soon made his wiiges . jKsappear. -When.iwr woke^up next r morning it was" „to.<lisc6ver that he.,hadit't "a ' penny left. -So- he ■decided-not to go* over to Melbourne, but to stay at the hotel as coots, as the owner was'm'wani'of'a^man^ 10 fill that responsible position. -Then a-gainV? ne wandered away, and "hadn't,.. been. '.seen. fence. He stayed away for about four I jnonj&gt cad tjific paH j» aaollier vi&ik '

It was 'one hot day in summer, and he came in at the gate in the same way -as lie had done before; only his clothes looked rather worse than before, his boots were,, far from being whole, his blankets looked as' if they had 'not known soap and water for a long time, and his pipe •was even blacker -than ..before. He remarked to Tom "that it was a "fine day," and added incidentally that walking ma'e .one tired andi hungry these days. . Such a broad hintoould hardly be misunderstood, so we gave him .something, to eat, and asked him how he had got on since he left vs — if he/had found his brother-in-law, or if he had been able to get over to Melbourne. He stared at us in a dazed way; ■ and said : "I ain't got any brother-in-law ; never 'had any brothers or sisters. Parents died when 1 was a baby." This was so '"directly in contrast to all his previous statements' that we could only conclude that he didn't know what he was" saying. But at least his garrulity had "not yet forsaken him,. "My '" uncle?' he * said, proudly, "is an ...English "lord. I'd "be the lord now, only me jfather was bora, five minutes too late. .When 'l was" a" boy 'l' had a tutor, and * he;, clidn't _do . anything , _all day but teach inc. But I've forgotten- all he -taught me , by. now 1 :" '•: - - • — v-. ■ . But having ' other things to 4° besides "listen to" him, and remembering his repu- j tatioh among our friends, we were obliged ' to give him a hint that his presence on the farm was not dssired. But, taking .no ii'ecd of it, he remarked, "I s'pQge I'll sleep in' the barn as before?" Such "cheek" we'd never seen before, and we were obliged to tell our ancient friend that at present there was nothing much to' do on the farm, and the barn was too full to admit of anyone sleeping in it. So poor Dan had perforce to quit.. ■ '■ But we were not done with him yet, •We). had 'hardly finished -breakfast next morning when he came in at the gate, laid his sw^g down at the doorstep, and proceeded to administed a good sound knock to^'the door. When Tom appeared he was calmly lighting his pipe, and said, "Fine day, -Tom." - _ , It certainly was a fine day, but that was.'soMagpafent that we could not see why Dan: needed to visit usmerely to inform us "of the fact. But we soon learned that he had other business. "I've bsen thinking," he said, "that me ' poprV/Drother^in-lawVmay be w.a'nting me/ ~_and*"that "if::l'<U>h?t v go" soon he- may. j"tlraik:? Tin T dea'd£ .and leave me -'name out of- his • -will- So is ye're the 'only kind" .people I knowsTiii New Zealand, I thought: X l^ ,. cbme\and ask ; you if \.yoifd lend me ' "enough 1 - money to "pay "me ' passage over to ■Melbourne." said -Tom,- "I thought.,you told; us last ' night that' you didn't have ' any brother-in-law." ~ -' "Qch, last night J. didn't know- what .I" was saying. I met an old pal at Bellbury, and he_' shouted' me a few. glasses. I hadn't quite got over it. I can, hardly ever get a. -drink now/ and when I does it-upsets' -me quite" — this with a mournful .shake of the head.- . ' -'-"But, -Dan, if we did lend you some money, which is -not very likely, wouldn't you go over' to Bellbury and get drunk?" , ' "Why," said Dan,-Vin seeming amazement, "I never get drunk with me. own -money." This seemed very stingy philosophy, and at the same time not exactly the truth.- We had to get rid of Dan somehow, though. ' "Well, Dan 1 ," said) Tonii V'lV 'I donMTthink I've got "any money in the house just now* (which was a fib, for a man had paid for two cows he- bought from us only , the night before), "but." if -you come again I'll try to rake up enough money for you, just to oblige a friend?" So Dan went* away,- but two days later he came back in great, joy. "Shure," he said, ;."loolc at this! 'Tis a gold brooch, an' I picked it up on the road. _ Shure 'twill 'be woi;th. quite enough . to .pay me passage to Melbourne.4' jv"But; Danj you'll have to return this to its s owner. 'Don't you -know who lost r it?" : -..„-._ \ ' , ' , 1 "Tli'e idee of fussin' j;ound to, return a brooch I "picked vp N on the road myself. "/Finders keep '„is - what > I say. I just found it in , the' proper time, ylt will just cbmVinr to* r pay m© passage/ "But> Dan, you'll- get put in gaol if you don't give it back." "-- "Welt, an who's to know I picked it •up? .You wouldn't 'be the ones to tell on a poor man as has always done his best Jry ye, would you?" Just men young Tom O'Grady came in at the gate. . •'' jsW'p'ie> /going to commence harvesting next week;" he said to Tom. "Will you Wi}y, what's .this?" he said, looking at the brooch .in Dan's hand. "It's the brooch tmy sister lost the day before yesterday ; yes/ it's the very^ one. My word, she'll be glad I'ye found it. That lawyer fellow that., was staying, with us gave it to her. They're' engaged, you know. Hand It over." - Here's half-a-crownT'fo'r-you." It all took "place in such a short time. Poor Dan seemed too much surprised to object. All his hopes seemed to disappear. From being the most joyful man in the world, Dan had become the saddest. Even after * Tom O'Grady had gone he continued in a sort of dazed wonder.- TheA he suddenly -woke up, andi commenced to rail against the New Zealand'people in general, and Tom O'Grady in particular, aiid, strongly- maintained that all New Zea- • landers were^ "mean rogues and thieves." -Our Tom advised him to "stow" that, and Dan, . lamenting sadly that his friends had forsaken 'him,' and stating that he intended "fo^'have't^eiaw^on Tom O'Gradiy, departed. Dan didn't visit us again, but we didn't lose sight of him altogether. Tom and I were in totfn about six months afterwards*, when* we saw him leaning up •against a lamp-post, with a letter in his hand. He seemed rather in difficulties, for^ as he uad often told Usj hj& couldn't

read or write. He was turning the envelope round in his hand, and seemed rather I afraid of hurting it. j "Hullo, Dan," said Tom. "Why, is that. you, Tom!" he said, looking up joj T fuliy; "and you, too, Cissie. i Well, I'm real glad to see you. And Fve got 'a letter here. It's addressed to me all right. The postman who gave it to Ime saw to that. I don't know what to do with it. I can't read, so p'raps Cissie would read it for me." I "Oh, verj well, I'll read it to you," I said. He gave me the envelope, and I tore it open. I was quite surprised when I pulled out what was inside. There were two ten-pound notes and a sheet of paper. "Why, look, Dan," I said. "Why, it must be from my brother-in-law," cried Dan. "I knew he wouldn't forget me. Here, give them to me, Cissie. Yes, isure -enough, it's good money. Head out the letter, Cissie." So I read it out.- It was froir Melbourne, and stated that Bill Brady was in a good way of business, and had laid by a nice little sum ; that he had advertised everywhere for Dan Haggarty, but had not received much news ; but had at last learnt that' he was living in X , and was sending this letter on the chance of it ; -that he was willing to deal handsomely by Dan, and was" willing to give him a good home, because "hrdidn" like to think of his brother living in poverty." The, notes were to pay his passage over. "Why, Dan, then- you- haven't been telling lies all along?" asked) Tom. "In course not. I always knew as Bill wouldn't forget me." I • "When will you be going?" I asked. ' "As soon as I can, Cissie; as soon as I can. I'm not going to stay here when I can have a good time of it over there, you bet." So old Dan left New Zealand to go to live with his brbther-m r law. I hope, for his sake, that the brother-in-law was all that he said. But I think :that he was a tradesman in a comfortable way of business, with a few hundreds laid by — not the i very rich man of Dan's stories. j