DALY, THE TROUBADOUR

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLII, Issue 1, 6 January 1909, Page 41

DALY, THE TROUBADOUR

By

PORTER EMERSON BROWN.

Illustrations by HORACE TAYLOR

This characteristic story of American life is recommended

!■ T was at the ninth annual outing of tfye Eighth Ward Social Democratic and Clam Chowder Association that he first met her. He was introduced to her by himself in one I of those brief intervals between I dances that the management of such | affairs arranges, in order that the guests I may find opportunity to moisten their ! inner men and women without losing any Of the “ spiel.'*

She was standing by an open window of the pavilion 11 company with a short, an; emic young man with an almost diamoiild in his -.hirt-trout. an abiding air of self-ost.cm, and a pair of striped cuffs that required an inordinate amount of pulling to keep them down to the. knuckles, as tin- cuffs of all "swell guys” should be worn. Daly’s introduction wa? characteristic. Nonchalantly he strolled over to where she stood. " Hello. Sadie,” he said. "Tell de skinnv guy yit' de awnin’s on his wrists to beat it. 1 want youse all to meseli. : The girl surveyed' him haughtily. “ Fresh.” she commented, witn much Inc “skinny guy” gazed at Daly belligerently; at least he did at first; but whin 1 got a good look at Daly’s breadth and height and the size of his fist, h.. hastily muttered something about having an engagement with another *• dame ’’ and ambled away, leaving Daly master of the field. •■ Is dat do kind o’ skates youse travels wit'?” demanded the. autocratic Daly of the girl, who was surveying her erstwhile partner with a not inconsiderable scorn. "Not on your life,” she returned. “1 like men.” ‘■Good,’’ approved Daly. “Dat s me.” The music had begun again, and beersatiated couples were swinging around the smooth floor with heads locked and hands on ea.-ii o.ner's hips. a<? the latest dictum of the East Side’s Beau Nash decreed those, must dance would be de Daly “spieled” with her all that afternoon. Several other gentlemen from time to time attempted to “butt in.” for the girl wa? ven pretty: ami pretty girls were scarce. But Daly repelled them with chill gaze and air of authority; and ihev “butted out” again. He had supper with her: and the evening they spent together on the soft aands of the shore, listening to the dull rumble of the >urf and the music of a hand that was imbued with melody and Irish whisky, though with far more of the latter than the former. And. though 1 should like to say that the dreamy

poesy of the surging. pulsing surf filled their beings with unformed longings and vague yearnings. I cannot tell a lie; so •I’ll only add that the surging, pulsing surf interfered with their hearing to such an extent that they moved down nearer the ba ml. “Ain't it grand!" exclaimed the girl, caressing her lofty pompadour with careful fingers. “Honest, 1 could die listening to music.'’ Paly shrugged his shoulders. “Some o' deni guys sounds like dey was goin’ to die makin* it.” he commented. “Say. what’s your name, Sadie?” That’s it.” she replied. “What’s it?" he demanded. “Sadie.” she replied. “Gee!” he exclaimed. “Now. wha* jer fink o’ dat. huh? I nails it de foist crack out o’ do box. Oh. I'm a bad guesser—not. An’ what’s dp last name?” “Dcvle,” she returned succinctly. “A good name.” he commended. “Mos* as good as me ownXnv relation to Aiderman Doyle, o’ de Ate?" “He’s my father." replied the girl, who did not. seem at all to resent the crossexamination. “Say. listen. Ain't that music grand?” - <ur« .” he assented amiably. His answer would have been precisely the tsame had her question been exactly antithetical in meaning. He had no time for music then. He was wondering what Sadie’d do if he should grab her and kiss her. “Do you read much?” she asked, at length. “Sure.” he replied. It’s a non-com-mittal sort of answer, is “sure,” and will well in almost any place.

"I read a perfectly grand book the other day.” she continued. "It was al»out a beautiful prince-* who lived in a castle. There was a picture of it and it looked just like the Tombs. Her father was a king, or something like that, and he wanted her to marry another king, but .-he loved a troub—a trouba — a troubadour,” she finished desperately, making a determined stab for the unfamiliar word, and then gazing nervously at her companion to see if he appeared to notice anything peculiar. He didn’t. "O, taking courage, she went on: • He used to come and play under her window slights.” “C raps?” asked the moderti and practical Daly. “No. music. He was a grand player, too. He could charm the birds out of the trees.” The love-laden Daly, abstracted, heard but the last sentence. “Must ’a’ be’n a cat.” he said. “I seen one do it oncet in Hamilton Fish Park.” "A cat!” she exclaimed impatiently. "Didn’t I say he was a troub—a trouba —a musician?” "Oh!” said Daly humbly. “Excuse me-e-e-e. I t'ought youse said he use’ to charm birds out o’ trees.” "So I did.” she replied. "Well.” commented Daly, “if he was like this bunch o’ hams,” indicating the band stand with a backward jerk of his thumb, “he could charm a bird out of a tree so’s it wouldn’t light for eighty miles. . . . But youse was sayin’—” “It was just grand.” she went on. “That’s the kind of man I want to marry. I often sit in my window nights —it’s in the back of the flat, on the fireescape. you know —and wish that some man like that would come and serenade me.”

"What’s dat?” demanded the up-to-date Daly, who was not posted on the romance of the Middle Ages. "Why. play tunes to me under my window.” she replied. "That’s what those troubadours did. they were grand guys! J she sighed wistfully. Daly started to make reply, but just then some one yelled that the last car was about to start; so he saved his breath for a sprint to the waiting trolley and for the fight that he knew would he necessary to secure a scat for the "dame.” They caught the car; and the “dame”

got her seat; and seven men of varied sizes, temperaments, raiment, and condition stood on the bumpers behind the rear dashboard, rearranging mussed and disordered apparel and making solemn and profane vows anont what thev’d do to that "big guy wit’ de peach” when they caught him alone. lie was not a laggard—Daly: so, when he left Sadie at the front door of the flat-house in which she lived, he held her hand for ten minutes, and promised her. and himself, that he would come to call on her the next evening. Then he kissed her and went home nursing a slapped cheek and a throbbing heart in which he sought in vain for some definite information as to "how he stood wit* her.” Promptly at seven-thirty on the following night, he entered the ill-lighted hallway of the flat-house and hunted for the name of Doyle on the soiled visiting cards and the little brass, tin, and aluminium plates that decked the tiny squares in the letter-boxes, above the He found the roof. So he turned and walked down again. The door of the third-floor rear apartment was open; and there was standing in it. not his divinity, but a short, stubby little man, with a belligerent look in his eye. a bunch of Glengarry* on his chin, and a short, black pipe in his mouth. “Did ye r-ring me bell?” he demanded, diil,” returned Daly, “if your name’s Doyle.” It is,” returned the little man. •H’nwhat for?” “I want to see Miss Doyle.” “Honoria, Bridget, Mary Ann. Em Teen. Norah. Katie, Maggie, Anastasia, Im, ’r Sadie?” demanded the little man.

round, dark, dirty circles of the speechless speaking-tubes. Finally he found it; the only clean card of the lot; and he pushed the button above it. . . . The door clicked invitingly. He pushed it open and entered. . . . The hallways were so dark that he could not read the names upon the individual flat bells, so he walked up, and up, ami up. and then up some more, expecting at last to find a door open, and in it, waiting with hands outstretched in welcome, the girl whom he had come to see.

“Sadie." returned Daly tersely. "Phwhat d’ye wanter see her f’r?” “1 came to call on her.” "Who ar-re ye?” "Me name’s Daly.” "Wan <>’ thim Connemara Dalys?” “Me fader came from Connemara,” returned Daly. The little old man bristled. "Goowan out o’ me house!” he shouted. "Goowan out o’ me house! How dar’st ye room duckin’ aroun’ me gur-rl, ye blatherskite! Goowan out o’ me house ’r, ol’ as Oi be an’ yoong as ye be. Oi'll go to th’ flure wid ye!” And he doubled his fists belligerently. "But ” expostulate 1 the amazed caller. The little old man hopped into the air a full t\\,o feet, and came down with hands reclenched ami whiskers bristling. "T’ t’ink o’ wan o’ thim Connemara Dalys darin’ t’ eoom t’ me house ’t see me Sadie!” he howled. "Git out! Goowan! ’R Oi’ll rowl ye, an’ rowl ye good. Goowan out o’ here, Oi say!” Daly stood for a jnoment irresolute. Then he dodged just in time to escape a number eleven boot, and the door slammed in his face. As I have said. Daly was not a laggard. The next two hours he spent sitting on a bench in the public playground, trying to decide what to do next. And sundry hours thereafter he spent in his . room in the composition and writing of ? a letter. He met the milkman as he returned from posting it. the following evening, about seven ?. o'clock, he went around to the residence - of his divinity; just why ho went he did not. know, and he did not have to t know, for events determined for him. r ‘ As he neared the c'toop of the flats house that was his purposeless destina- - tion, he. saw a small group of people I oi various sizes, ages, and conditions of b deshabille seated on tte steps, bending over something, and from time to time ’ laughing immoderately, with many slaps of thighs and many loud guffaws. Naturally, he was interested to know' what it was that so excited the amalgamated risibilities of the gathering; and, besides, he felt that in his present mental condition a good laugh wouldn’t do him a bit of harm. So he pushed his way into the group and on toward the centre of hilarity. An ample woman, with a careless coiffure and an intermittent gown, was engaged in deciphering something written on a sheet of paper, stopping ever and anon to slap two fat knees with two fat hands and to chortle gleefuly. “ * —me own troo love,’ ” read the ample woman gurglingly. as Daly arrived within earshot. " ‘Yure ol’ gent he hands me a lemon ' ’’ She stopped to permit the laughter to abate. Daly scratched one ear reminiscently. “ ‘ —but you’re all right, Sadie, an’ I loves you.” continued the ample woman chokingly; and Daly suddenly ceased scraching. The words came from his painfullyborn brain-child of the evening before. "Gi’ mo dat.” he ordered, shoving aside three men and four women, and i' climbing over seven or eight children. p "Aw. what’s giftin' t’rough yousp, d young feller?” demanded a small man II with a motor-sprinkled derby and an ‘1 alcoholicalfy illuminated nose. “ Ain’t n yuh got no better manners’n tuh git frish wit’ a lady ? ” n " W’erc’d she git dat letter?” he dee manded. d -• Seen some ol’ guy turn it out de winfl der an’ picked it up.” returned the ample ° lady. " Did yuh t’ink I was a secon’e story woiker? ” il " Well, gi’ me it.” commanded Daly aun thoritatively. e “ Gi’ youse it! ” cried the ample lady. " Gi’ youse it! Well. I should say nit! I ain’t ha’f road it yet.” “ Why should she give youse de let- -- ter?” demanded the man who had spoken e before. “ It ain’t yours, is it? ” g " eYs,” returned Daly shortly: and he i- snatched the letter from the fat hands of y the amazed reader. e ” Well,” exclaimed the man with the '1 mortar-sprinkled hat and the alcoholic- « ally illuminated nose, "now wha’juh t’ink ; o’ dat! Now, wha’juh t’ink o’ dat? ” But is before anyone had time to say what he i. thought of it. he himself decided that it a was most amusing, and he broke out a into a loud guffaw. “Gee, but dat fresh guy’s a gran’ writer, ain’t he?” inquired the ample ’s lady, ironically. She was naturally 1. wroth, for there was still much of the letter that she had not had time to read. To the accompaniment of derisive hoots i, and jeering comments, Daly made his 'r way down the block and around the corner to the Playground, and there

he sat biniMlf down upon a rtench and immersed himself tn thought. He remained there for two hours; for lii» mental processes were slow. At length he arose and went <aross to a drug store that hail a pay-station telephone, and, borrowing the book, he sought in it until a caustic clerk, who was on tile other side of a glass counter, told him that it was a drug store that he was in, not a reading-room. Daly paused long enough to state that it would give him great pleasure to knock the (iiiistic clerk’s roof off if the. latter would step out into the alley for a brief period: and then returned to the book. After half an hour more, he ascertained that there was no telephone in the castle of his princess; so, shaking his head sadly, he went bark to his bench. He «at there while the round moon rode grandly down the star-studded heavens and dipped beneath the western horizon (which was the roof of a brewery) and at length he. stretched himself wearily, and heaved a sigh that caused three cats to retire in a state bordering on nervous prostration—and it takes much to prostrate nervously a city-bred feline. " She said she liked guys what could sere-—sere—what could play toons under her winder. I—” His mouth gaped, his eyes grew big. An idea had found birth in his brain. " Gee! ’’ he exclaimed, “ Why di’in 1 —” t’ink o’ dat before! . . . I’ll do it! 1—” His eyes relapsed to normality; his mouth closed. “Pshaw!” he said. “I can’t play nothin’! ” •hist then, from through the darkness of the trees there came to him the mechanical strains of a belated hurdy-gurdy. Again his eyes bulged: and again his mouth opened; for another idea had been born. "M f’r dat!” he cried. “I'll serenade her an’ serenade her good! I'll bet dem ol’ guys what lived in castles like de Tombs di n’ have hoidy-goidy music fer deir goils!” He listened. "Sweet Evening Breeze” resounded tinnily on the night air. followed immediately by “I’m dying for to See My Love Again,” and this, in turn, by "I Love You Like I Never Loved Be-

fore,” and then. “He Handed Me a Lemon.” which gave place to ••Run Away vvith Me, Jlv Own; oh, Run Away with Me.” Daly scratched his head. "I couldn’t ’a’ done no better ’f I’d framed it up meself,” he commented; and he rode and made, hasty progress toward whence came the turgid strains. The owner of the organ, a son of Sunny Italy, was an obdurate individual who was not over-conversant, with the American tongue, anti who believed in the fundamental law that one’s property is safer in one’s own hands than in those of another. Daly argued and pleaded and threatened for ten minutes, and then was striving to make up his mind whether or not he should take the organ by force, of arms (and possibly legs) when assistance arrived in the shape of Officer Rafferty. Officer Rafferty and Daly were old friends. The owner of the organ, at this particular juncture, was friendless. Daly laid the case before his friend; and then Officer Rafferty with the end of his club, prodded the organ owner in a cinnamon-pink patch. •'How long d’youse want de organ f’r, Tirince?” he asked of the persistent Daly. ” ’Bout a coupla hours,” returned the latter. •’Dem Guineas is stingy guys an’ ain't got no sense, nohow,” said Officer Rafferty. Again he. prodded the vociferously protesting organ man. “G’wan out o’ here, youse!” he said truculently. “Y’ljint got no bus’ness round anny how. excipt on ’lection day when we needs yer votes. G’wan. now! Beat it. Skidoo! Come back in a coupla hours an’ we’ll give yer organ back ter yer. Now chase yerself. See?” The organ owner at first did not see. But two more prods and a shove opened his eyes as well as several cursorily sewn rents in his raiment: and he proceeded sullenly, mut teringly, threateningly. to skidoo as ordered. “Much obliged. Mike.” acknowledged Daly, as he swung himself into the shafts and prepared to tow the hurdy-gurdy to his lady’s bower. “Don’t mention it. me boy,” returned the minion of the law. “’Tis a pleasure; an’ I hope dat Guinea comes back too early so’s I can give him anodder wallop ’r two. Dem furriners is roonin’ de - country f’r us Americans, annyhow. Good luck to youse.” It was two-fifteen, exactly, when Daly backed the organ up under the fireescape appertaining to the boudoir of his heart’s desire, and took a grip on the ■ handle. Ami the opening strains of "He ■ Handed Me a Lemon” rang out ti|K»n air that had a couple of centuries before been pure. But the strains ceased sud- • denly, for Daly discovered that ho was starting his repertoire in the middle. By ' the time he had backed around to Number One on the disk, and was finally > started right with “Sweet Evening > Breeze,” seven windows were open and ' seven sleep-laden, wondering faces were poked forth-

Ere Evening Breeze” wa» half through blowing. nin«ir<*n uiudow» were niien aud thirty-aeveu faces peered fmm them, hut they were very »ieepv, nor m» very xvmvbring. And when he .■tarled on “I’lll Dying for tn ?*ee My Lt>ve Again ' there wasn't a <l»e»ed window on the block —»»ave one; and every window waa full of faces and every fare was full of burning wrath and yet more burning words. "Hay, youse—•” "Now what the dhvie—!” “Get off de block, you longlegged stiff—!” “Cut it out*! Cut it out—!” “G’wan out o’ here *r I’ll knock yer roof off—!” Such were, expurgated, the remarks that came floating down l<> Daly's ears amid the classic strain* <»f his serenade. But he ground away industriously*, hi- eyes upon the one closed window — that of his ladyPer?istently he watched—persistently, that is. until three bottles. *even shoes, a washboard, a. chair, a shower of coal, and an ice-pick came hurtling down around him-, and then he was forced to remove hi- g-aze from the window in order that he might pay attention to the First Law of Nature. The organ caught most of the fusillade; and he found that, by crouching a bit. he was reasonably safe; for the |>eople across the alley were rather poor shots, ami some distance away. And from the neighbours of his lady’ the hurdy-gurdy protected him. He looked up at the window. It. was now open. His eyes sought eagerly for his divinity. She would understand—of that he was sure. She would appreciate tue danger he was running for her sake—to what lengths his devotion for her was carrying him: and. incidentally, he began to have much more respect for those troub — trouba—trobadour guys. He dodged a beer-bottle and a coal-scuttle; and cast a hasty glance at the window. She would understand! She would find some way to show him that his devotion was appreciated —she would discover some manner of showing him that his love was returned —she The watched window opened, and there stopped forth —a little old man. clad in a white nightshirt. Ho. carried a potted geranium in each hand. Daly crouched warily. The little man in the white nightshirt laid one geranium carefully at his feet. Then he raised the other aloft and took careful aim. It struck fair on the top of the hurdygurdy’ and the strains or "He Handed Me a Lemon” ceased to sound. The little man in the white nightshirt picked up the other pot and raised it above his head. He leaned far over the fire-escape rail. He had only this one geranium and the kitchen range left; and his daughter’s serenader was still uninjured. Farther and farther over he leaned, and farther, and yet farther—and the rail broke! The little man, white nightshirt, potted

geranium, and all. struck Daly fair on top of the head; and they went down in the dust together, amid the delighted whoops of the spectator?. Daly wriggled out from under the white, nightshirt, spat, out a mouthful of dirt and geranium leaves, and scrambled to bis hands and knees just in time to see. charging upon the scene, the imported owner of the organ waving a large domestic knife. And before he could interfere. the organ owner had alighted with both feet upon the embonpoint of the white nightshirt. It was an insecure footing, for just as ho alighted the white nightshirt movSd; and the son of Sunny Italy sat down with such force upon the back of Daly’s neck that the knife was jolted from his hand. For the next few moments the interested spectators could see. nothing clearly; the scene closely resembled a mass play in a football game conducted under the old rules. The first thing distinguishable was the son of Sunny Italy fleeing down the alley, with the. little man in the white nightshirt in < lose pursuit and the longlegged troubadour a bad. but constantly becoming a. better, third. Through a half-mile of deserted street and alley the parade flew, the distance between the fleers steadily lessning; and. just as the son of Sunny Italy, looking over his shoulder, had begun shrilly to request the aid of eighty or ninety patron •'amts, the three ran into a delegation of other sons of Sunny Italy that was coming home from a celebration, covered with green feathers and tin-foil and filled with maroon vinegar and bellicosities. Not for nothing had the man in the white nightshirt spent his days at fairs and his months in recovering from them. “Back to back!” he yelled, stopping and retreating toward Daly with the easy grace of a brewery horse on a slippery pavement. And not for nothing did there course through Daly’s veins the blood of Connemara. The father of bis heart’s desire did not have to yell twice. As the Roman cohorts formed for fray and drawing trusty knives, looked for a back to stick them into, his eves roved over the cobbles at his feet; half a dozen scattered bricks lay within reach. Lean* ■ ing over lithelv, ho picked up two. “Take dose!” he shouted, thrusting : them behind him. The man in the white ■ nightshirt stretched out fumbling hands ■ and took them; and he heaved a huge i sigh of relief. i Daly had time, and just time, to pick up two more. Then the battle was on. i ft was a memorable battle, comparing ’ favourably, in some respects, with Bala- ■ clava and Waterloo and Gettysburg and he Sullivan-Corbett fight. It took the I reserves from three stations to end it, I and seven ambulances to clear eway the > wounded; and nineteen-med Inal students, who needed practice, but did not want it,

cut and whittled and and r>|*ped and up again until Ko*y Fingered Dawn and bi* frirnd-. the unlknivn. appeared upon the ncene of the world's endeavour*. The little man in the white night-hirt went home on one foot between two sohcitoua |<oliecmen; and he carried a brick in each hand. “*Ti* foine soov-neers they’ll ma-ake,

Dimpspy,” he commented chattily, as they wrapped him in a horse blanket in order that the neighbourhood might not Im* scandalised: for a white nightshirt is not the best, armour for primitive warfare. “Phvvha-at happened to th’ la ad?” “Wan o’ deni Ciuineas cracks him on de roof wit a ‘.Peace on Eart’ Good Will to Men’ banner, sir,” returned the supporting officer. And th** little man in the white nightshirt shook his head gravely. Daly awakened to find bimself between-clean-smelling sheets of spotless white,

hi* k*eu-l going round like a squirrel ■ ar»e with all the M|uirrel-w bu»v. So he sighed anti ckwrd hi' *,'-** b* * ait Unul ,he foot of hi?* white-iron t»*i should get through bopping up ami down and the windows in the opposite wail should he eome less drunken, Il they wanted u» inarch around, lhev might at least do it soberly and gracefully, a* decent window » should. At length, after a long, long time, he felt a cool hand on his brow—a cool, ca rowing hand. It felt very good and he lay, eyes c’o>»-d. enjoying it, for another long, long time. •‘lt ain’t really dere.” he told himself. “In a minnit i’ll hat me lamps an' bing! it’ll be gone.” Still he lay with closed eyes; but. contrary to his exi»e« tatiom*, the hand did not go. And at ength he waxed braver and slyly opened one eye. He saw a face above him—a very pretty far*-, with red lip.- ami red cueewS and, be it addrd. red eyes—although the 'akes of soft sympathy that thev held made them but the mon- Ixantiiul fur their redness. "Sadie!” he cried. The head nodded. Daly closed his eyes. "tJee.” he said, "but dat was a great dream!” "It isn’t a dream,” came to bis ears. He opened his eyes —Isith eyes. "Is it really you, Sadie?” he demanded. She noddtsl. There was a pause. Daly shifted a little, heavily. "What are yousv doin’ here. Sadie?” he asKed. . "They’ll find it out and youse’ll get into all kinds o’ trouble —and youse mustn’t. . . An’ how did youse «now I was here? Your father said ” She pressed her hand gently, firmly against his brow ; and she smiled a little through her tears. "Father sent me.” she said softly. [END.]