ared to have fought his way by
main force, and very often, indeed, this was literally the fact, as his
bleeding nose, torn coat, and bare head attested.

'Thomas Colooney--are you the man?' asked one of our Irish officers of
the staff.

'Yis, yer honour, I 'm that same!'

'You've come here, Colooney, to offer yourself as a volunteer in the
cause of your country?'

Here a yell of 'Ireland for ever!' was always raised by the bystanders,
which drowned the reply in its enthusiasm, and the examination went
on:--

'You'll be true and faithful to that cause till you secure for your
country the freedom of America and the happiness of France? Kiss the
cross. Are you used to firearms?'

'Isn't he?--maybe not! I'll be bound he knows a musket from a mealy
pratie!'

Such and such like were the comments that rang on all sides, so that the
modest 'Yis, sir,' of the patriot was completely lost.

'Load that gun, Tom,' said the officer.

Here Colooney, deeming that so simple a request must necessarily be only
a cover for something underhand--a little clever surprise or so--takes
up the piece in a very gingerly manner, and examines it all round,
noticing that there is nothing, so far as he can discover, unusual nor
uncommon about it.

'Load that gun, I say.'

Sharper and more angrily is the command given this time.

'Yis, sir, immadiately.'

And now Tom tries the barrel with the ramrod, lest there should be
already a charge there--a piece of forethought that is sure to be loudly
applauded by the public, not the less so because the impatience of the
French officers is making itself manifest in various ways.

At length he rams down the cartridge, and returns the ramrod; which
piece of adroitness, if done with a certain air of display and flourish,
is unfailingly saluted by another cheer. He now primes and cocks the
piece, and assumes a look of what he believes to be most soldierlike
severity.

As he stands thus for scrutiny, a rather lively debate gets up as to
whether or not Tom bit off the end of the cartridge before he rammed it
down. The biters and anti-biters being equally divided, the discussion
waxes strong. The French officers, eagerly asking what may be the
disputed point, laugh very heartily on hearing it.

'I'll lay ye a pint of sperits she won't go off,' cries one.

'Done! for two naggins, if he pulls strong,' rejoins another.

'Devil fear the same gun,' cries a third; 'she shot Mr. Sloan at fifty
paces,