“I had the monument did in galvanized iron, and it will stand there for forty years, and every visitor to that cemetery will know suthin about the Great International. I wrote it modest, for I didn’t want it to look too much like an advertisement, though, of course, I wanted to get all I could out of the afflictin event.”
Ordering another brandy cold, the pleasant old gentleman murmured more reminiscences. He had always had a penchant for wild Indian troupes, and, since the Zulu war, for Zulus, and he flowed on about them:—
“Foggarty,” said he, “was the best Zulu I ever had, and I have had a hundred of ’em. He laid over the lot. He entered into the spirit of the thing, and did the bizniss conscientiously. When he came outside with a iron girdle about him, and a pizen spear, he lept in dead earnest, he did. He made it mighty lively for the keeper to hold him, and he howled so like a savage that he skeered the wimin and gals to a degree that they couldn’t help goin’ in to see him. Foggarty was a great man, and hed talent. He was the best Modoc Chief I ever had. O’Finnegan cood lay over him on the green corn dance, and possibly drest the best, but Foggarty’s war-whoop was suthin’ sublime. We hed him one season as Scar-Faced Charley, and the next as Shack-Nasty Jim, and he did himself proud in
THE SIDE-SHOW ZULU.
FOGGARTY’S MISFORTUNE.