ye're standin' at this moment, me dhrinkin' beer an' him callin' f'r hot
Irish. 'Make it hot,' he says. 'Make it hot, me frind; an' we'll make it
hot f'r th' British between us,' says Schwartzmeister.
"It come about this way: Ye see Willum Joyce come in, an' says he,
'We've got thim.' 'Sure,' says I. 'We've the comityman, haven't we?'
'Th' Dutch is with us,' he says. 'I mane the Germans is our frinds.'
'Ye're goin' too far there,' says I. 'Stuckart was again Reed las'
spring.' 'No, no,' says Willum Joyce, he says. 'Th' Germans is up in
ar-rms again th' Sassenach,' he says. 'Mind ye,' he says, 'mind ye,' he
says, ''tis our jooty to be frindly with th' Germans,' he says. 'I'm
now on me way f'r to organize a camp iv me Dutch frinds down be th'
slough,' he says. An' off he goes.
"'Twas not long afther whin I heerd a man singin' 'Th' Wearin' iv th'
Green' down th' sthreet, an' in come Schwartzmeister. 'Faugh a ballagh,'
says he, meanin' to be polite. 'Lieb vaterland,' says I. An' we had a
dhrink together.
"'Vell,' says he (ye know th' murdhrin' way he has iv speakin'), 'here
we are,' he says, 'frinds at las'.' 'Thrue f'r ye,' says I. 'Tooley,' he
says, f'r he calls me that, 'we're wan to-night, alretty,' he says. 'We
are that,' says I. 'But, glory be, who iver thought th' Irish'd live to
see th' day whin they'd be freed be th' Dutch? Schwartz, me lieber
frind,' I says, 'here's a health to th' imp'ror, hock,' says I.
'Slanthu,' says he; an' we had wan.
"''Twud be a great combination,' says I, 'We'd carry th' wa-ard be th'
biggest majority iver heerd iv,' I says. 'We wud so,' says he. 'I'd be
aldherman.' 'Afther me,' says I. ''Tis my turn first,' I says. 'I don't
know about that,' says he. 'Now,' says I, 'look here, Schwartzmeister,'
I says. 'This here arrangement between Germany an' Ireland has got to be
brought down to th' Sixth Wa-ard,' I says. 'Do ye f'rgive th' way we
done ye in th' beer rites?' I says. 'I do,' says he. 'They was befure me
time.' 'Well,' says I, 'are ye sure ye can get over th' whalin' ye got
whin th' Sarsfield Fife an' Dhrum Corpse met th' Frederick Willum Picnic
Band?' I says. 'I do,' says he. 'An' ye have no har-rd feelin' about th'
way th' bridges has been give out?' 'Not a thrace,' says he. 'Well,'
says I, 'Schwartz,' I says, 'they'se wan thing more,' I says. 'We're
both pathrites,' I says. 'We have a common cause,' I says. 'Ye're a
Dutchman, an' I'm iv' th' other sort,' I says. 'But we're both again th'
Sassenach,' I says. 'An' in th' inthrests iv th' freedom iv Ireland,' I
says, 'I f'rgive ye th' pool table.'
"Well, sir, Jawn, he wept like a child. 'Tooley,' he says, 'we'll march
side be side,' he says. 'Both iv us in th' front rank,' he says.
'Aldherman Tooley an' Aldherman Schwartzmeister, to free Ireland,' he
says. 'But where does Germany come in?' he says. 'Germany!' says I,
'Germany! Well, we'll take care iv Germany, all right. We'll let Germans
into th' prim'ries,' I says. An' there an' thin we formed th'
Sarsfield-an'-Gatty camp. Gatty is a German frind iv Schwartzmeister. We
shook dice to see which name'd come first. Ireland won. They was my
dice.
"I learned Schwartzmeister th' Shan-van-Voght before we was through; an'
I've got th' German naytional chune be heart,--'Ich vice nit wauss allus
bay doitan'. What'll ye have to drink, Jawn?"
And, as Mr. McKenna went out, he heard his friend muttering: "Freed be
th' Dutch! Freed be the Dutch! An' we niver give thim so much as a
dillygate."
ON ORATORY IN POLITICS.
"I mind th' first time Willum J. O'Brien r-run f'r office, th'
Raypublicans an' th' Indypindants an' th' Socialists an' th'
Prohybitionist (he's dead now, his name was Larkin) nommynated a young
man be th' name iv Dorgan that was in th' law business in Halsted
Sthreet, near Cologne, to r-run again' him. Smith O'Brien Dorgan was his
name, an' he was wan iv th' most iloquint young la-ads that iver made a
speakin' thrumpet iv his face. He cud holler like th' impire iv a
base-ball game; an', whin he delivered th' sintimints iv his hear-rt,
ye'd think he was thryin' to confide thim to a man on top iv a high
buildin'. He was prisidint iv th' lithry club at th' church; an' Father
Kelly tol' me that, th' day afther he won th' debate on th' pen an' th'
soord in favor iv th' pen, they had to hire a carpenter to mend th'
windows, they'd sagged so. They called him th' boy or-rator iv Healey's
slough.
"He planned th' campaign himsilf. 'I'll not re-sort,' says he, 'to th'
ordin'ry methods,' he says. 'Th' thing to do,' he says, 'is to prisint
th' issues iv th' day to th' voters,' he says. 'I'll burn up ivry
precin't in th' ward with me iloquince,' he says. An' he bought a long
black coat, an' wint out to spread th' light.
"He talked ivrywhere. Th' people jammed Finucane's Hall, an' he tol'
thim th' time had come f'r th' masses to r-rise. 'Raymimber,' says he,
'th' idees iv Novimb'r,' he says. 'Raymimber Demosthens an' Cicero an'
Oak Park,' he says. 'Raymimber th' thraditions iv ye'er fathers, iv
Washin'ton an' Jefferson an' Andhrew Jackson an' John L. Sullivan,' he
says. 'Ye shall not, Billy O'Brien,' he says, 'crucify th' voters iv th'
Sixth Ward on th' double cross,' he says. He spoke to a meetin' in
Deerin' Sthreet in th' same wurads. He had th' sthreet-car stopped while
he coughed up ree-marks about th' Constitution, until th' bar-rn boss
sint down an' threatened to discharge Mike Dwyer that was dhrivin' wan
hundherd an' eight in thim days, though thransferred to Wintworth Avnoo
later on. He made speeches to polismin in th' squadroom an' to good
la-ads hoistin' mud out iv th' dhraw at th' red bridge. People'd be
settin' quite in th' back room playin' forty-fives whin Smith O'Brien
Dorgan'd burst in, an' addhress thim on th' issues iv th' day.
"Now all this time Bill O'Brien was campaignin' in his own way. He niver
med wan speech. No wan knew whether he was f'r a tariff or again wan, or
whether he sthud be Jefferson or was knockin' him, or whether he had th'
inthrests iv th' toilin' masses at hear-rt or whether he wint to mass at
all, at all. But he got th' superintindint iv th' rollin'-mills with
him; an' he put three or four good faml'ies to wurruk in th' gas-house,
where he knew th' main guy, an' he made reg'lar calls on th' bar-rn boss
iv th' sthreet-ca-ars. He wint to th' picnics, an' hired th' orchesthry
f'r th' dances, an' voted himsilf th' most pop'lar man at th' church
fair at an expinse iv at laste five hundherd dollars. No wan that come
near him wanted f'r money. He had headquarthers in ivry saloon fr'm wan
end iv th' ward to th' other. All th' pa-apers printed his pitcher, an'
sthud by him as th' frihd iv th' poor.
"Well, people liked to hear Dorgan at first, but afther a few months
they got onaisy. He had a way iv breakin' into festive gatherin's that
was enough to thry a saint. He delayed wan prize fight two hours,
encouragin' th' voters prisint to stand be their principles, while th'
principles sat shiverin' in their cor-rners until th' polis r-run him
out. It got so that men'd bound into alleys whin he come up th' sthreet.
People in th' liquor business rayfused to let him come into their
places. His fam'ly et in th' coal-shed f'r fear iv his speeches at
supper. He wint on talkin', and Willum J. O'Brien wint on handin' out
th' dough that he got fr'm th' gas company an' con-ciliatin' th' masses;
an', whin iliction day come, th' judges an' clerks was all f'r O'Brien,
an' Dorgan didn't get votes enough to wad a gun. He sat up near all
night in his long coat, makin' speeches to himsilf; but tord mornin' he
come over to my place where O'Brien sat with his la-ads. 'Well,' says
O'Brien, 'how does it suit ye?' he says. 'It's sthrange,' says Dorgan.
'Not sthrange at all,' says Willum J. O'Brien. 'Whin ye've been in
politics as long as I have, ye'll know,' he says, 'that th' roly-boly is
th' gr-reatest or-rator on earth,' he says. 'Th' American nation in th'
Sixth Ward is a fine people,' he says. 'They love th' eagle,' he says,
'on th' back iv a dollar,' he says. 'Well,' says Dorgan, 'I can't
undherstand it,' he says. 'I med as manny as three thousan' speeches,'
he says. 'Well,' says Willum J. O'Brien, 'that was my majority,' he
says. 'Have a dhrink,' he says."
ON CHRISTMAS GIFTS.
The approach of Christmas is heralded in Archey Road by many of the
signs that are known to the less civilized and more prosperous parts of
the city. The people look poorer, colder, and more hopeful than at other
times. The bakeries assume an old country appearance of gayety. The
saloons are well filled. Also, if you have your eyes about you, you may
catch a glimpse, now and then, through a frosted window-pane of a
stunted Christmas tree, laden slenderly with glass balls and ropes of
red popcorn, the work of painful hands after the childher are abed. Mr.
Dooley knew Christmas was coming by the calendar, the expiration of his
quarterly license, and Mr. Hennessy coming in with a doll in his pocket
and a rocking-chair under his arm.
"Prisints?" said the philosopher.
"Yis," said Mr. Hennessy. "I had to do it. I med up me mind this year
that I wudden't buy anny Chris'mas prisints or take anny. I can't
afford it. Times has been fearful ha-ard, an' a look iv pain comes over
th' ol' woman's face whin I hold out fifty cints fr'm me salary on
Saturdah night. I give it out that I didn't want annything, but they'se
so much scurryin' ar-round an' hidin' things whin I go in that I know
they've got something f'r me. I cudden't stand it no longer, so I wint
down town to-night, down be Shekel an' Whooper's place, an' bought these
things. This is a fine doll f'r th' money."
"It is," said Mr. Dooley, taking the doll and examining it with the eye
of an art critic. "It closes its eyes,--yis, an', bedad, it cries if ye
punch it. They're makin' these things more like human bein's ivry year.
An' does it say pap-pah an' mam-mah, I dinnaw?"
"No," said Mr. Hennessy, "th' pap-pah an' mam-mah dolls costs too much."
"Well," continued Mr. Dooley, "we can't have ivrything we want in this
wurruld. If I had me way, I'd buy goold watches an' chains f'r ivrybody
in th' r-road, an' a few iv th' good Germans. I feel that gin'rous. But
'tis no use. Ye can't give what ye want. Ivry little boy ixpects a pony
at Chris'mas, an' ivry little girl a chain an' locket; an' ivry man
thinks he's sure goin' to get th' goold-headed cane he's longed f'r
since he come over. But they all fin'lly land on rockin'-horses an'
dolls, an' suspindhers that r-run pink flowers into their shirts an'
tattoo thim in summer. An' they conceal their grief Chris'mas mornin'
an' thry to look pleasant with murdher in their hearts.
"Some wan has always give me a Chris'mas prisint, though no wan has anny
r-right to. But no wan iver give me annything I cud wear or ate or
dhrink or smoke or curl me hair with. I've had flasks iv whisky give
me,--me that have lashin's iv whisky at me elbow day an' night; an',
whin I opined thim, blue an' yellow flames come out an' some iv th'
stuff r-run over on th' flure, an' set fire to th' buildin'. I smoke th'
best five-cint see-gar that money can buy; yet, whin a good frind iv
mine wants to make me a prisint f'r Christmas, he goes to a harness shop
an' buys a box iv see-gars with excelsior fillin's an' burlap wrappers,
an', if I smoked wan an' lived, I'd be arristed f'r arson. I got a pair
iv suspinders wanst fr'm a lady,--niver mind her name,--an' I wurruked
hard that day; an' th' decorations moved back into me, an' I had to take
thim out with pumice stone. I didn't lose th' taste iv th' paint f'r
weeks an' weeks.
"Wan year I wanted a watch more thin annything in th' wurruld. I talked
watches to ivry wan that I thought had designs on me. I made it a pint
to ask me frinds what time iv night it was, an' thin say, 'Dear me, I
ought to get a watch if I cud affoord it.' I used to tout people down to
th' jooler's shop, an' stand be th' window with a hungry look in th'
eyes iv me, as much as to say, 'If I don't get a watch, I'll perish.' I
talked watches an' thought watches an' dhreamed watches. Father Kelly
rebuked me f'r bein' late f'r mass. 'How can I get there befure th'
gospil, whin I don't know what time it is?' says I. 'Why don't ye luk at
ye'er watch?' he says. 'I haven't none,' says I. Did he give me a watch?
Faith, he did not. He sint me a box iv soap that made me smell like a
coon goin' to a ball in a State Sthreet ca-ar. I got a necktie fr'm wan
man; an', if I wore it to a meetin' iv th' Young Hebrews' Char'table
Society, they'd've thrun me out. That man wanted me to be kilt. Another
la-ad sint me a silk handkerchief that broke on me poor nose. Th'
nearest I got to a watch was a hair chain that unravelled, an' made me
look as if I'd been curryin' a Shetland pony. I niver got what I wanted,
an I niver expect to. No wan does."
"I'll get ye what ye want," said Mr. Hennessy, "if ye'll tell me what it
is, an' it don't cost too much."
"Will ye?" said Mr. Dooley, eagerly.
"I will," said Mr. Hennessy, "if 'tis within me means."
"Ye're jokin'," said Mr. Dooley.
"I'm not. I mane it."
"Do ye, honest?"
"I do so."
"Thin," said Mr. Dooley, "get me th' Audjitooroom. I've wanted that to
play with f'r manny years."
And Mr. Hennessy went away with the rocking-chair under his arm, the
doll in his pocket, and dumb anger in his heart.
ON ANARCHISTS.
"'Tis ha-ard bein' a king these days," said Mr. Dooley. "Manny's th' man
on a throne wishes his father'd brought him up a cooper, what with wages
bein' docked be parlymints an' ragin' arnychists r-runnin' wild with
dinnymite bombs undher their ar-rms an' carvin'-knives in their pockets.
"Onaisy, as Hogan says, is th' head that wears a crown. They'se other
heads that're onaisy, too; but ye don't hear iv thim. But a man gr-rows
up in wan iv thim furrin counthries, an' he's thrained f'r to be a king.
Hivin may've intinded him f'r a dooce or a jack, at th' most; but he has
to follow th' same line as his father. 'Tis like pawn-brokin' that way.
Ye niver heerd iv a pawnbroker's son doin' annything else. Wanst a king,
always a king. Other men's sons may pack away a shirt in a thrunk, an'
go out into th' wurruld, brakin' on a freight or ladin' Indyanny bankers
up to a shell game. But a man that's headed f'r a throne can't r-run
away. He's got to take th' job. If he kicks, they blindfold him an' back
him in. He can't ask f'r his time at th' end iv th' week, an' lave. He
pays himsilf. He can't sthrike, because he'd have to ordher out th'
polis to subjoo himsilf. He can't go to th' boss, an' say: 'Me hours is
too long an' th' wurruk is tajious. Give me me pay-check.' He has no
boss. A man can't be indipindint onless he has a boss. 'Tis thrue. So he
takes th' place, an' th' chances ar-re he's th' biggest omadhon in th'
wurruld, an' knows no more about r-runnin' a counthry thin I know about
ladin' an orchesthry. An', if he don't do annything, he's a dummy, an',
if he does do annything, he's crazy; an' whin he dies, his foreman
says: 'Sure, 'tis th' divvle's own time I had savin' that bosthoon fr'm
desthroyin' himsilf. If it wasn't f'r me, th' poor thing'd have closed
down the wurruks, an' gone to th' far-rm long ago.' An' wan day, whin
he's takin' th' air, p'raps, along comes an Eyetalyan, an' says he,
'Ar-re ye a king?' 'That's my name,' says his majesty. 'Betther dead,'
says th' Eyetalyan; an' they'se a scramble, an' another king goes over
th' long r-road.
"I don't know much about arnychists. We had thim here--wanst. They wint
again polismen, mostly. Mebbe that's because polismen's th' nearest
things to kings they cud find. But, annyhow, I sometimes think I know
why they're arnychists somewhere, an' why they ain't in other places. It
minds me iv what happened wanst in me cousin Terence's fam'ly. They was
livin' down near Healey's slough in wan iv thim ol' Doherty's
houses,--not Doherty that ye know, th' j'iner, a good man whin he don't
dhrink. No, 'twas an ol' grouch iv a man be th' name iv Malachi Doherty
that used to keep five-day notices in his thrunk, an' ownded his own
privit justice iv th' peace. Me cousin Terence was as dacint a man as
iver shoed a hor-rse; an his wife was a good woman, too, though I niver
took much to th' Dolans. Fr'm Tipperary, they was, an' too handy
throwin' things at ye. An' he had a nice fam'ly growin' up, an' I niver
knowed people that lived together more quite an' amyable. 'Twas good f'r
to see thim settin' ar-roun' th' parlor,--Terence spellin' out th'
newspaper, an' his good woman mendin' socks, an' Honoria playin' th'
'Vale iv Avoca' on th' pianny, an' th' kids r-rowlin' on th' flure.
"But wan day it happened that that whole fam'ly begun to rasp on wan
another. Honoria'd set down at th' pianny, an' th' ol' man'd growl: 'F'r
th' love iv th' saints, close down that hurdy-gurdy, an' lave a man
injye his headache!' An' th' good woman scolded Terence, an' th' kids
pulled th' leg fr'm undher th' stove; an', whin th' big boy Mike come
home fr'm Omaha, he found none iv thim speakin' to th' others. He cud do
nawthin', an' he wint f'r Father Kelly. Father Kelly sniffed th' air
whin he come in; an' says he, 'Terence, what's th' matther with ye'er
catch basin?' 'I dinnaw,' growled Terence. 'Well,' says Father Kelly,
'ye put on ye'er hat this minyit, an' go out f'r a plumber,' he says.
'I'm not needed here,' he says. 'Ye'er sowls ar-re all r-right,' he
says; 'but ye'er systems ar-re out iv ordher,' he says. 'Fetch in a
plumber,' he says, 'whilst I goes down to Doherty, an' make him think
his lease on th' hereafther is defective,' he says."
"Ye're right," said Mr. Hennessy, who had followed the argument dimly.
"Iv coorse I'm right," said Mr. Dooley. "What they need over there in
furrin' counthries is not a priest, but a plumber. 'Tis no good prayin'
again arnychists, Hinnissy. Arnychists is sewer gas."
ON THE DREYFUS CASE.
"I see be th' pa-apers," said Mr. Dooley, "that Col. Hinnery, th' man
that sint me frind Cap. Dhry-fuss to th' cage, has moved on. I suppose
they'll give th' Cap a new thrile now."
"I hope they won't," said Mr. Hennessy. "I don't know annything about
it, but I think he's guilty. He's a Jew."
"Well," said Mr. Dooley, "ye'er thoughts on this subject is inthrestin',
but not conclusive, as Dorsey said to th' Pollack that thought he cud
lick him. Ye have a r-right to ye'er opinyon, an' ye'll hold it annyhow,
whether ye have a r-right to it or not. Like most iv ye'er
fellow-citizens, ye start impartial. Ye don't know annything about th'
case. If ye knew annything, ye'd not have an opinyon wan way or th'
other. They'se niver been a matther come up in my time that th' American
people was so sure about as they ar-re about th' Dhryfliss case. Th'
Frinch ar-re not so sure, but they'se not a polisman in this counthry
that can't tell ye jus' where Dhry-russ was whin th' remains iv th' poor
girl was found. That's because th' thrile was secret. If 'twas an open
thrile, an' ye heerd th' tistimony, an' knew th' language, an' saw th'
safe afther 'twas blown open, ye'd be puzzled, an' not care a rush
whether Dhry-fuss was naked in a cage or takin' tay with his uncle at
th' Benny Brith Club.
"I haven't made up me mind whether th' Cap done th' shootin' or not. He
was certainly in th' neighborhood whin th' fire started, an' th' polis
dug up quite a lot iv lead pipe in his back yard. But it's wan thing to
sus-pect a man iv doin' a job an' another thing to prove that he didn't.
Me frind Zola thinks he's innocint, an' he raised th' divvle at th'
thrile. Whin th' judge come up on th' bench an' opined th' coort, Zola
was settin' down below with th' lawyers. 'Let us pro-ceed,' says th'
impartial an' fair-minded judge, 'to th' thrile iv th' haynious monsther
Cap Dhry-fuss,' he says. Up jumps Zola, an' says he in Frinch:
'Jackuse,' he says, which is a hell of a mane thing to say to anny man.
An' they thrun him out. 'Judge,' says th' attorney f'r th' difinse, 'an'
gintlemen iv th' jury,' he says. 'Ye're a liar,' says th' judge. 'Cap,
ye're guilty, an' ye know it,' he says. 'Th' decision iv th' coort is
that ye be put in a cage, an' sint to th' Divvle's own island f'r th'
r-rest iv ye'er life,' he says. 'Let us pro-ceed to hearin' th'
tistimony,' he says. 'Call all th' witnesses at wanst,' he says, 'an'
lave thim have it out on th' flure,' he says. Be this time Zola has come
back; an' he jumps up, an', says he, 'Jackuse,' he says. An' they thrun
him out.
"'Befure we go anny farther,' says th' lawyer f'r th' difinse, 'I wish
to sarve notice that, whin this thrile is over, I intind,' he says, 'to
wait outside,' he says, 'an' hammer th' hon'rable coort into an omelet,'
he says. 'With these few remarks I will close,' he says. 'Th' coort,'
says th' judge, 'is always r-ready to defind th' honor iv France,' he
says; 'an', if th' larned counsel will con-sint,' he says, 'to step up
here f'r a minyit,' he says, 'th' coort'll put a sthrangle hold on him
that'll not do him a bit iv good,' he says. 'Ah!' he says. 'Here's me
ol' frind Pat th' Clam,' he says. 'Pat, what d'ye know about this case?'
he says. 'None iv ye'er business,' says Pat. 'Answered like a man an' a
sojer,' says th' coort. 'Jackuse,' says Zola fr'm th' dureway. An' they
thrun him out. 'Call Col. Hinnery,' says th' coort. 'He ray-fuses to
answer.' 'Good. Th' case is clear. Cap forged th' will. Th' coort will
now adjourn f'r dools, an' all ladin' officers iv th' ar-rmy not in
disgrace already will assimble in jail, an' com-mit suicide,' he says.
'Jackuse,' says Zola, an' started f'r th' woods, pursued be his
fellow-editors. He's off somewhere in a three now hollerin' 'Jackuse' at
ivry wan that passes, sufferin' martyrdom f'r his counthry an' writin'
now an' thin about it all.
"That's all I know about Cap Dhry-fuss' case, an' that's all anny man
knows. Ye didn't know as much, Hinnissy, till I told ye. I don't know
whether Cap stole th' dog or not."
"What's he charged with?" Mr. Hennessy asked, in bewilderment.
"I'll niver tell ye," said Mr. Dooley. "It's too much to ask."
"Well, annyhow," said Mr. Hennessy, "he's guilty, ye can bet on that."
ON THE DECADENCE OF GREECE.
"That young Hogan is a smart la-ad," said Mr. Dooley. "A smart la-ad an'
a good wan, too."
"None betther," said Mr. Hennessy.
"None betther in th' ward," said Mr. Dooley, which was a high
appreciation. "But there ar-re things about human nature an' histhry
that ain't taught at Saint Ignateeus'. I tell thim to Hogan's la-ad.
"He was walkin' be th' store wan day las' week, an' I ast him how th'
wa-ar wint. 'Tis sthrange, with churches two in a block, an' public
schools as thick as lamp-posts, that, whin a man stops ye on th'
sthreet, he'll ayether ast ye th' scoor iv th' base-ball game or talk iv
th' Greek war with ye. I ain't seen annything that happened since
Parnell's day that's aroused so much enthusyasm on th' Ar-rchey Road as
th' Greek war. 'How goes th' war?' says I to young Hogan, 'How goes the
war between th' ac-cursed infidel an' th' dog iv a Christian?' I says.
'It goes bad,' he says. 'Th' Greeks won a thremenjous battle, killin'
manny millions iv th' Moslem murdherers, but was obliged to retreat
thirty-two miles in a gallop.' 'Is that so?' says I. 'Sure that seems to
be their luck,' I says. 'Whin-iver they win, they lose; an', whin they
lose, they lose,' I says. 'What ails thim?' I says. 'Is th' riferee
again thim?' 'I can't make it out,' he says, while a tear sthud in his
eye. 'Whin I think iv Leonidas at th' pass iv Thermometer,' he says,
'an' So-an'-so on th' field iv Marathon an' This-or-that th' Spartan
hero,' he says, 'I cannot undherstand f'r th' life iv me why th' Greeks
shud have been dhruv fr'm pillar to post be an ar-rmy iv slaves. Didn't
Leonidas, with hardly as manny men as there are Raypublicans in this
precint, hold th' pass again a savage horde?' he says. 'He did,' says I.
'He did.' 'An' didn't What's-his-name on th' field iv Marathon overcome
an' desthroy th' ravagin' armies iv Persia?' he says. 'Thrue f'r ye,'
says I. 'There's no doubt in th' wurruld about it,' I says. 'An' look at
Alexander th' Great,' he says. 'Aleck was a turror, an' no mistake,'
says I. 'An' Miltiades,' he says. 'I on'y know what I hear iv him,' says
I. 'But fr'm all accounts he must have been consid'rable iv a fellow,'
says I. 'An' in later days Marco Boozaris,' he says. 'He was th' man
that come in con-sumption's dreaded form,' says I, 'an' he was afraid iv
no man.' 'Well, thin,' says he, 'how ar-re we to account f'r this
disgrace?' he says.