, one of the first questions the
applicant for a passport is required to answer is his reason for
desiring to make the journey, and during the Great War, as everybody
of mature years will recall, civilians were not permitted to subject
themselves to the dangers of a ruthless submarine war without good and
sufficient reason. Mr. O'Leary had a reason--to his way of thinking,
the noblest reason in all the world; consequently he was proud of it
and not at all inclined to conceal it.

"I'm goin' over there," he declared, with profane emphasis, "to kill
all the damned English I can before they kill me."

His interlocutor gravely wrote this reply down in Mr. O'Leary's exact
language and proceeded to the other questions. When the application
was completed, Dirty Dan certified to the correctness of it, and was
then smilingly informed that he had better go back where he came from,
because his application for a passport was denied. Consumed with fury,
the patriot thereupon aired his opinion of the Government of the
United States, with particular reference to its representative then
present, and in the pious hope of drowning his sorrows, went forth and
proceeded to get drunk.

When drunk, Mr. O'Leary always insisted, in the early stages of his
delirium, on singing Hibernian ballads descriptive of the unflinching
courage, pure patriotism and heroic sacrifices of the late Owen Roe
O'Neill and O'Donnell Abu. Later in the evening he would howl like a
timber-wolf and throw glasses, and toward morning he always fought it
out on the floor with some enemy. Of course, in the sawmill towns of
the great Northwest, where folks knew Mr. O'Leary and others of his
ilk, it was the custom to dodge the glasses and continue to discuss
the price of logs. Toward Dirty Dan, however, New York turned a
singularly cold shoulder. The instant he threw a glass, the barkeeper
tapped him with a "billy"; then a policeman took him in tow, and the
following morning, Dirty Dan, sick, sore, and repentant was explaining
to a police judge that he was from Port Agnew, Washington, and really
hadn't meant any harm. He was, therefore, fined five dollars and
ordered to depart forthwith for Port Agnew, Washington, which he did,
arriving there absolutely penniless and as hungry as a cougar in
midwinter. He fled over to the mill kitchen, tossed about five
dollars worth of ham and eggs and hot biscuit into his empty being,
and began to take stock of life. Naturally, the fir