Then, recovering himself, he exclaimed with great enthusiasm, "I'd throw
up me job an'--an' live like a prince."
"I tell ye what ye'd do," said Mr. Dooley. "Ye'd come back here an'
sthrut up an' down th' sthreet with ye'er thumbs in ye'er armpits; an'
ye'd dhrink too much, an' ride in sthreet ca-ars. Thin ye'd buy foldin'
beds an' piannies, an' start a reel estate office. Ye'd be fooled a good
deal an' lose a lot iv ye'er money, an' thin ye'd tighten up. Ye'd be in
a cold fear night an' day that ye'd lose ye'er fortune. Ye'd wake up in
th' middle iv th' night, dhreamin' that ye was back at th' gas-house
with ye'er money gone. Ye'd be prisidint iv a charitable society. Ye'd
have to wear ye'er shoes in th' house, an' ye'er wife'd have ye around
to rayciptions an dances.' Ye'd move to Mitchigan Avnoo, an' ye'd hire a
coachman that'd laugh at ye. Ye'er boys'd be joods an' ashamed iv ye,
an' ye'd support ye'er daughters' husbands. Ye'd rackrint ye'er tinants
an' lie about ye'er taxes. Ye'd go back to Ireland on a visit, an' put
on airs with ye'er cousin Mike. Ye'd be a mane, close-fisted,
onscrupulous ol' curmudgeon; an', whin ye'd die, it'd take half ye'er
fortune f'r rayqueems to put ye r-right. I don't want ye iver to speak
to me whin ye get rich, Hinnissy."
"I won't," said Mr. Hennessy.
ON BOOKS.
"Ivry time I pick up me mornin' paper to see how th' scrap come out at
Batthry D," said Mr. Dooley, "th' first thing I r-run acrost is
somethin' like this: 'A hot an' handsome gift f'r Christmas is Lucy Ann
Patzooni's "Jims iv Englewood Thought"'; or 'If ye wud delight th'
hear-rt iv yer child, ye'll give him Dr. Harper's monymental histhry iv
th' Jewish thribes fr'm Moses to Dhry-fuss' or 'Ivrybody is r-readin'
Roodyard Kiplin's "Busy Pomes f'r Busy People."' Th' idee iv givin'
books f'r Christmas prisints whin th' stores are full iv tin hor-rns an'
dhrums an' boxin' gloves an choo-choo ca-ars! People must be crazy."
"They ar-re," said Mr. Hennessy. "My house is so full iv books ye
cudden't tur-rn around without stumblin' over thim. I found th' life iv
an ex-convict, the 'Prisoner iv Zinders,' in me high hat th' other day,
where Mary Ann was hidin' it fr'm her sister. Instead iv th' chidher
fightin' an' skylarkin' in th' evenin', they're settin' around th' table
with their noses glued into books. Th' ol' woman doesn't read, but she
picks up what's goin' on. 'Tis 'Honoria, did Lor-rd What's-his-name
marry th' fair Aminta?' or 'But that Lady Jane was a case.' An' so it
goes. There's no injymint in th' house, an' they're usin' me cravats f'r
bookmarks."
"'Tis all wrong," said Mr. Dooley. "They're on'y three books in th'
wurruld worth readin',--Shakespeare, th' Bible, an' Mike Ahearn's
histhry iv Chicago. I have Shakespeare on thrust, Father Kelly r-reads
th' Bible f'r me, an' I didn't buy Mike Ahearn's histhry because I seen
more thin he cud put into it. Books is th' roon iv people, specially
novels. Whin I was a young man, th' parish priest used to preach again
thim; but nobody knowed what he meant. At that time Willum Joyce had th'
on'y library in th' Sixth Wa-ard. Th' mayor give him th' bound volumes
iv th' council proceedings, an' they was a very handsome set. Th' on'y
books I seen was th' kind that has th' life iv th' pope on th' outside
an' a set iv dominos on th' inside. They're good readin'. Nawthin' cud
be better f'r a man whin he's tired out afther a day's wurruk thin to go
to his library an' take down wan iv th' gr-reat wurruks iv lithratchoor
an' play a game iv dominos f'r th' dhrinks out iv it. Anny other kind iv
r-readin', barrin' th' newspapers, which will niver hurt anny onedycated
man, is desthructive iv morals.
"I had it out with Father Kelly th' other day in this very matther. He
was comin' up fr'm down town with an ar-rmful iv books f'r prizes at th'
school. 'Have ye th' Key to Heaven there?' says I. 'No,' says he, 'th'
childher that'll get these books don't need no key. They go in under th'
turnstile,' he says, laughin'. 'Have ye th' Lives iv th' Saints, or the
Christyan Dooty, or th' Story iv Saint Rose iv Lima?' I says. 'I have
not,' says he. 'I have some good story books. I'd rather th' kids'd
r-read Char-les Dickens than anny iv th' tales iv thim holy men that
was burned in ile or et up be lines,' he says. 'It does no good in these
degin'rate days to prove that th' best that can come to a man f'r
behavin' himsilf is to be cooked in a pot or di-gisted be a line,' he
says. 'Ye're wrong,' says I. 'Beggin' ye'er riv'rince's pardon, ye're
wrong,' I says. 'What ar-re ye goin' to do with thim young wans? Ye're
goin' to make thim near-sighted an' round-shouldered,' I says. 'Ye're
goin' to have thim believe that, if they behave thimsilves an' lead a
virchous life, they'll marry rich an' go to Congress. They'll wake up
some day, an' find out that gettin' money an behavin' ye'ersilf don't
always go together,' I says. 'Some iv th' wickedest men in th' wurruld
have marrid rich,' I says. 'Ye're goin' to teach thim that a man doesn't
have to use an ax to get along in th' wurruld. Ye're goin' to teach thim
that a la-ad with a curlin' black mustache an' smokin' a cigareet is
always a villyan, whin he's more often a barber with a lar-rge family.
Life, says ye! There's no life in a book. If ye want to show thim what
life is, tell thim to look around thim. There's more life on a Saturdah
night in th' Ar-rchy Road thin in all th' books fr'm Shakespeare to th'
rayport iv th' drainage thrustees. No man,' I says, 'iver wrote a book
if he had annything to write about, except Shakespeare an' Mike Ahearn.
Shakespeare was all r-right. I niver read anny of his pieces, but they
sound good; an' I know Mike Ahearn is all r-right.'"
"What did he say?" asked Mr. Hennessy.
"He took it all r-right," said Mr. Dooley. "He kind o' grinned, an' says
he: 'What ye say is thrue, an' it's not thrue,' he says. 'Books is f'r
thim that can't injye thimsilves in anny other way,' he says. 'If ye're
in good health, an' ar-re atin' three squares a day, an' not ayether sad
or very much in love with ye'er lot, but just lookin' on an' not carin'
a'--he said rush--'not carin' a rush, ye don't need books,' he says.
'But if ye're a down-spirited thing an' want to get away an' can't, ye
need books. 'Tis betther to be comfortable at home thin to go to th'
circus, an' 'tis betther to go to th' circus thin to r-read anny book.
But 'tis betther to r-read a book thin to want to go to th' circus an'
not be able to,' he says. 'Well,' says I, 'whin I was growin' up, half
th' congregation heard mass with their prayer books tur-rned upside
down, an' they were as pious as anny. Th' Apostles' Creed niver was as
con-vincin' to me afther I larned to r-read it as it was whin I cudden't
read it, but believed it.'"
ON REFORM CANDIDATES.
"That frind iv ye'ers, Dugan, is an intilligent man," said Mr. Dooley.
"All he needs is an index an' a few illusthrations to make him a
bicyclopedja iv useless information."
"Well," said Mr. Hennessy, judiciously, "he ain't no Soc-rates an' he
ain't no answers-to-questions colum; but he's a good man that goes to
his jooty, an' as handy with a pick as some people are with a cocktail
spoon. What's he been doin' again ye?"
"Nawthin'," said Mr. Dooley, "but he was in here Choosday. 'Did ye
vote?' says I. 'I did,' says he. 'Which wan iv th' distinguished bunko
steerers got ye'er invalu'ble suffrage?' says I. 'I didn't have none
with me,' says he, 'but I voted f'r Charter Haitch,' says he. 'I've been
with him in six ilictions,' says he, 'an' he's a good man,' he says.
'D'ye think ye're votin' f'r th' best?' says I. 'Why, man alive,' I
says, 'Charter Haitch was assassinated three years ago,' I says. 'Was
he?' says Dugan. 'Ah, well, he's lived that down be this time. He was a
good man,' he says.
"Ye see, that's what thim rayform lads wint up again. If I liked
rayformers, Hinnissy, an' wanted f'r to see thim win out wanst in their
lifetime, I'd buy thim each a suit iv chilled steel, ar-rm thim with
raypeatin' rifles, an' take thim east iv State Sthreet an' south iv
Jackson Bullyvard. At prisint th' opinion that pre-vails in th' ranks iv
th' gloryous ar-rmy iv rayform is that there ain't annything worth
seein' in this lar-rge an' commodyous desert but th' pest-house an' the
bridewell. Me frind Willum J. O'Brien is no rayformer. But Willum J.
undherstands that there's a few hundherds iv thousands iv people livin'
in a part iv th' town that looks like nawthin' but smoke fr'm th' roof
iv th' Onion League Club that have on'y two pleasures in life, to wurruk
an' to vote, both iv which they do at th' uniform rate iv wan dollar
an' a half a day. That's why Willum J. O'Brien is now a sinitor an' will
be an aldherman afther next Thursdah, an' it's why other people are
sinding him flowers.
"This is th' way a rayform candydate is ilicted. Th' boys down town has
heerd that things ain't goin' r-right somehow. Franchises is bein'
handed out to none iv thim; an' wanst in a while a mimber iv th' club,
comin' home a little late an' thryin' to ricon-cile a pair iv r-round
feet with an embroidered sidewalk, meets a sthrong ar-rm boy that pushes
in his face an' takes away all his marbles. It begins to be talked that
th' time has come f'r good citizens f'r to brace up an' do somethin',
an' they agree to nomynate a candydate f'r aldherman. 'Who'll we put
up?' says they. 'How's Clarence Doolittle?' says wan. 'He's laid up with
a coupon thumb, an' can't r-run.' 'An' how about Arthur Doheny?' 'I
swore an oath whin I came out iv colledge I'd niver vote f'r a man that
wore a made tie.' 'Well, thin, let's thry Willie Boye.' 'Good,' says
th' comity. 'He's jus' th' man f'r our money.' An' Willie Boye, after
thinkin' it over, goes to his tailor an' ordhers three dozen pairs iv
pants, an' decides f'r to be th' sthandard-bearer iv th' people. Musin'
over his fried eyesthers an' asparagus an' his champagne, he bets a polo
pony again a box of golf-balls he'll be ilicted unanimous; an' all th'
good citizens make a vow f'r to set th' alar-rm clock f'r half-past
three on th' afthernoon iv iliction day, so's to be up in time to vote
f'r th' riprisintitive iv pure gover'mint.
"'Tis some time befure they comprehind that there ar-re other candydates
in th' field. But th' other candydates know it. Th' sthrongest iv
thim--his name is Flannigan, an' he's a re-tail dealer in wines an'
liquors, an' he lives over his establishment. Flannigan was nomynated
enthusyastically at a prim'ry held in his bar-rn; an' before Willie Boye
had picked out pants that wud match th' color iv th' Austhreelyan ballot
this here Flannigan had put a man on th' day watch, tol' him to speak
gently to anny ray-gistered voter that wint to sleep behind th' sthove,
an' was out that night visitin' his frinds. Who was it judged th' cake
walk? Flannigan. Who was it carrid th' pall? Flannigan. Who was it sthud
up at th' christening? Flannigan. Whose ca-ards did th' grievin' widow,
th' blushin' bridegroom, or th' happy father find in th' hack?
Flannigan's. Ye bet ye'er life. Ye see Flannigan wasn't out f'r th' good
iv th' community. Flannigan was out f'r Flannigan an' th' stuff.
"Well, iliction day come around; an' all th' imminent frinds iv good
gover'mint had special wires sthrung into th' club, an' waited f'r th'
returns. Th' first precin't showed 28 votes f'r Willie Boye to 14 f'r
Flannigan. 'That's my precin't,' says Willie. 'I wondher who voted thim
fourteen?' 'Coachmen,' says Clarence Doolittle. 'There are thirty-five
precin'ts in this ward,' says th' leader iv th' rayform ilimint. 'At
this rate, I'm sure iv 440 meejority. Gossoon,' he says, 'put a keg iv
sherry wine on th' ice,' he says. 'Well,' he says, 'at last th'
community is relieved fr'm misrule,' he says. 'To-morrah I will start in
arrangin' amindmints to th' tariff schedool an' th' ar-bitration
threety,' he says. 'We must be up an' doin',' he says. 'Hol' on there,'
says wan iv th' comity. 'There must be some mistake in this fr'm th'
sixth precin't,' he says. 'Where's the sixth precin't?' says Clarence.
'Over be th' dumps,' says Willie. 'I told me futman to see to that. He
lives at th' corner iv Desplaines an Bloo Island Av'noo on Goose's
Island,' he says. 'What does it show?' 'Flannigan, three hundherd an'
eighty-five; Hansen, forty-eight; Schwartz, twinty; O'Malley, sivinteen;
Casey, ten; O'Day, eight; Larsen, five; O'Rourke, three; Mulcahy, two;
Schmitt, two; Moloney, two; Riordon, two; O'Malley, two; Willie Boye,
wan.' 'Gintlemin,' says Willie Boye, arisin' with a stern look in his
eyes, 'th' rascal has bethrayed me. Waither, take th' sherry wine off
th' ice. They'se no hope f'r sound financial legislation this year. I'm
goin' home.'
"An', as he goes down th' sthreet, he hears a band play an' sees a
procission headed be a calceem light; an', in a carredge, with his plug
hat in his hand an' his di'mond makin' th' calceem look like a piece iv
punk in a smoke-house, is Flannigan, payin' his first visit this side iv
th' thracks."
ON PATERNAL DUTY.
"I'm havin' a time iv it with Terence," said Mr. Hennessy, despondently.
"What's th' la-ad been doin'?" asked Mr. Dooley.
"It ain't so much what he's doin'," Mr. Hennessy explained, "as what he
ain't doin.' He ain't stayin' home iv nights, an' he ain't wurrukin';
but he does be out on th' corner with th' Cromleys an' th' rest, dancin'
jig steps an' whistlin' th' 'Rogue's March' whin a polisman goes by.
Sure, I can do nawthin' with him, f'r he's that kind an' good at home
that he'd melt th' heart iv a man iv stone. But it's gray me life is,
thinkin' iv what's to become iv him whin he gets to be a man grown.
Ye're lucky, Martin, that ye're childless."
"Sure, I cudden't be anny other way, an' hold me good name," said Mr.
Dooley. "An', whin I look about me sometimes, it's glad I am. They'se
been times, perhaps--But lave that go. Is there somethin' in th' air or
is it in oursilves that makes th' childher nowadays turn out to curse
th' lives iv thim that give thim life? It may be in th' thrainin'. Whin
I was a kid, they were brought up to love, honor, an' respect th' ol'
folks, that their days might be long in th' land. Amen. If they didn't,
th' best they cud do was to say nawthin' about it. 'Twas th' back iv th'
hand an' th' sowl iv th' fut to th' la-ad that put his spoon first into
th' stirabout. Between th' whalin's we got at school h'isted on th' back
iv th' big boy that was bein' thrainned to be a Christyan brother an'
th' thumpin's we got at home, we was kept sore an' sthraight fr'm wan
year's end to another. 'Twas no mild doses they give us, ayether. I mind
wanst, whin I was near as big as I am now, I handed back some onkind
re-emarks to me poor father that's dead. May he rest in peace, per
Dominum! He must iv been a small man, an' bent with wurruk an' worry.
But did he take me jaw? He did not. He hauled off, an' give me a r-right
hook where th' bad wurruds come fr'm. I put up a pretty fight, f'r me
years; but th' man doesn't live that can lick his own father. He rowled
me acrost an oat-field, an' I give up. I didn't love him anny too well
f'r that lickin', but I respected him; an', if he'd come into this place
to-night,--an' he'd be near a hundherd: he was born in th' year '98, an'
pikes was hid in his cradle,--if he come in here to-night an' pulled me
ear, I'd fear to go again him. I wud so.
"'Tis th' other way about now. Did ye iver know a man be th' name iv
Ahearn? Ye did not? Well, maybe he was befure yer time. He was a cobbler
be thrade; but he picked up money be livin' off iv leather findings an'
wooden pegs, an' bought pieces iv th' prairie, an' starved an' bought
more, an' starved an' starved till his heart was shrivelled up like a
washerwoman's hand. But he made money. An' th' more he made, th' more he
wanted, an', wantin' nawthin' more, it come to him fr'm the divvle, who
kept th' curse f'r his own time. This man Ahearn, whin he had acres an'
acres on Halsted Sthreet, an' tinants be th' scoor that prayed at nights
f'r him that he might live long an' taste sorrow, he marrid a girl. Her
name was Ryan, a little, scared, foolish woman; an' she died whin a boy
was bor-rn. Ahearn give her a solemn rayqueem high mass an' a monument
at Calv'ry that ye can see fr'm th' fun'ral thrain. An' he come fr'm th'
fun'ral with th' first smile on his face that anny man iver see there,
an' th' baby in his ar-rms.
"I'll not say Ahearn was a changed man. Th' love iv money was knitted
into his heart; an', afther th' la-ad come, th' way he ground th' people
that lived in his house was death an' destruction. 'I must provide f'r
me own,' he said. But thim that was kind to th' kid cud break th' crust,
an' all th' r-rough, hard-wurrkin' tenants paid f'r th' favors he give
to th' ol' frauds an' beguilin' women that petted Dan'l O'Connell
Ahearn. Nawthin' was too good f'r th' kid. He had nurses an' servants to
wait on him. He had clothes that'd stock this ba-ar f'r a year. Whin he
was old enough, he was sint to Saint Ignatyous. An' th' ol' man'd take
him walkin' on a Sundah, an' pint out th' rows an' rows iv houses, with
th' childher in front gazin' in awe at th' great man an' their fathers
glowerin' fr'm the windows, an' say, 'Thim will all be yours whin ye
grow up, Dan'l O'Connell, avick.'
"Well, it didn't take an eye iv a witch to see that Dan'l O'Connell was
a bor-rn idjet. They was no rale harm in th' poor la-ad, on'y he was
lazy an' foolish an' sort iv tired like. To make a long story short,
Hinnissy, his father thried ivrything f'r him, an' got nawthin.' He
didn't dhrink much, he cared little f'r women, he liked to play ca-ards,
but not f'r money. He did nawthin' that was bad; an' yet he was no good
at all, at all,--just a slow, tired, aisy-goin', shamblin' la-ad,--th'
sort that'd wrench th' heart iv a father like Ahearn. I dinnaw what he
did fin'lly, but wan night he come into my place an' said he'd been
turned out be his father an' wanted a place f'r to sleep. 'Ye'll sleep
at home,' says I. 'Ye'er father sh'd take shame to himsilf,--him a rich
man.' An' I put on me coat, an' wint over to Ahearn's. I was a power in
th' wa-ard in thim days, an' feared no man alive. Th' ol' la-ad met us
at th' dure. Whin I started to speak, he blazed up. 'Misther Dooley,'
says he, 'my sorrows are me own. I'll keep thim here. As f'r ye,' he
says, an' tur-rned like a tiger on th' boy an' sthruck him with his ol'
leathery hand. Th' boy stood f'r a minyit, an' thin walked out, me with
him. I niver see him since. We left Ahearn standin' there, as we used to
say iv th' fox in th' ol' counthry, cornered between th' river an' th'
wall."
"Ye're lucky to be alone," said Mr. Hennessy as he left.
"I think so," said Mr. Dooley. But there was no content upon his face as
he watched a lounging oaf of a boy catch up with Mr. Hennessy, exchange
a curtly affectionate greeting, and walk over to where Mrs. Hennessy
could be seen reading the "Key of Heaven" beside the parlor stove.
ON CRIMINALS.
"Lord bless my sowl," said Mr. Dooley, "childher is a gr-reat
risponsibility,--agr-reat risponsibility. Whin I think iv it, I praise
th' saints I niver was married, though I had opporchunities enough whin
I was a young man; an' even now I have to wear me hat low whin I go down
be Cologne Sthreet on account iv th' Widow Grogan. Jawn, that woman'll
take me dead or alive. I wake up in a col' chill in th' middle iv th'
night, dhreamin' iv her havin' me in her clutches.
"But that's not here or there, avick. I was r-readin' in th' pa-apers iv
a lad be th' name iv Scanlan bein' sint down th' short r-road f'r near a
lifetime; an' I minded th' first time I iver see him,--a bit iv a
curly-haired boy that played tag around me place, an' 'd sing 'Blest
Saint Joseph' with a smile on his face like an angel's. Who'll tell what
makes wan man a thief an' another man a saint? I dinnaw. This here boy's
father wur-rked fr'm morn till night in th' mills, was at early mass
Sundah mornin' befure th' alkalis lit th' candles, an' niver knowed a
month whin he failed his jooty. An' his mother was a sweet-faced little
woman, though fr'm th' County Kerry, that nursed th' sick an' waked th'
dead, an' niver had a hard thought in her simple mind f'r anny iv Gawd's
creatures. Poor sowl, she's dead now. May she rest in peace!
"He didn't git th' shtreak fr'm his father or fr'm his mother. His
brothers an' sisters was as fine a lot as iver lived. But this la-ad
Petey Scanlan growed up fr'm bein' a curly-haired angel f'r to be th'
toughest villyun in th' r-road. What was it at all, at all? Sometimes I
think they'se poison in th' life iv a big city. Th' flowers won't grow
here no more thin they wud in a tannery, an' th' bur-rds have no song;
an' th' childher iv dacint men an' women come up hard in th' mouth an'
with their hands raised again their kind.
"Th' la-ad was th' scoorge iv th' polis. He was as quick as a cat an' as
fierce as a tiger, an' I well raymimber him havin' laid out big Kelly
that used to thravel this post,--'Whistlin'' Kelly that kep' us awake
with imitations iv a mockin' bur-rd,--I well raymimber him scuttlin' up
th' alley with a score iv polismin laborin' afther him, thryin' f'r a
shot at him as he wint around th' bar-rns or undher th' thrucks. He
slep' in th' coal-sheds afther that until th' poor ol' man cud square it
with th' loot. But, whin he come out, ye cud see how his face had
hardened an' his ways changed. He was as silent as an animal, with a
sideways manner that watched ivrything. Right here in this place I seen
him stand f'r a quarther iv an' hour, not seemin' to hear a dhrunk man
abusin' him, an' thin lep out like a snake. We had to pry him loose.
"Th' ol' folks done th' best they cud with him. They hauled him out iv
station an' jail an' bridewell. Wanst in a long while they'd dhrag him
off to church with his head down: that was always afther he'd been
sloughed up f'r wan thing or another. Between times th' polis give him
his own side iv th' sthreet, an' on'y took him whin his back was
tur-rned. Thin he'd go in the wagon with a mountain iv thim on top iv
him, sway in' an' swearin' an' sthrikin' each other in their hurry to
put him to sleep with their clubs.
"I mind well th' time he was first took to be settled f'r good. I heerd
a noise in th' ya-ard, an' thin he come through th' place with his face
dead gray an' his lips just a turn grayer. 'Where ar-re ye goin',
Petey?' says I. 'I was jus' takin' a short cut home,' he says. In three
minyits th' r-road was full iv polismin. They'd been a robbery down in
Halsted Sthreet. A man that had a grocery sthore was stuck up, an' whin
he fought was clubbed near to death; an' they'd r-run Scanlan through
th' alleys to his father's house. That was as far as they'd go. They was
enough iv thim to've kicked down th' little cottage with their heavy
boots, but they knew he was standin' behind th' dure with th' big gun in
his hand; an', though they was manny a good lad there, they was none
that cared f'r that short odds.
"They talked an' palavered outside, an' telephoned th' chief iv polis,
an' more pathrol wagons come up. Some was f'r settin' fire to th'
buildin', but no wan moved ahead. Thin th' fr-ront dure opened, an' who
shud come out but th' little mother. She was thin an' pale, an' she had
her apron in her hands, pluckin' at it. 'Gintlemin,' she says, 'what is
it ye want iv me?' she says. 'Liftinant Cassidy,' she says, ''tis
sthrange f'r ye that I've knowed so long to make scandal iv me before me
neighbors,' she says. 'Mrs. Scanlan,' says he, 'we want th' boy. I'm
sorry, ma'am, but he's mixed up in a bad scrape, an' we must have him,'
he says. She made a curtsy to thim, an' wint indures. 'Twas less than a
minyit before she come out, clingin' to th' la-ad's ar-rm. 'He'll go,'
she says. 'Thanks be, though he's wild, they'se no crime on his head. Is
there, dear?' 'No,' says he, like th' game kid he is. Wan iv th'
polismin stharted to take hold iv him, but th' la-ad pushed him back;
an' he wint to th' wagon on his mother's ar-rm."
"And was he really innocent?" Mr. McKenna asked.
"No," said Mr. Dooley. "But she niver knowed it. Th' ol' man come home
an' found her: she was settin' in a big chair with her apron in her
hands an th' picture iv th' la-ad in her lap."
ON A PLOT.
"Well," said Mr. Dooley, "th' European situation is becomin' a little
gay."