“Phat shud we do wid thim if they sthart their tantrums here?” sez he.
“Who is thim?” sez oi, widout lookin’ up to see who waz addressin’ me.
“The Suff-Rage-Etts,” sez he.
“Oh, it’s yerself,” sez oi, turnin’ an’ foindin’ the dear ould lad
besoide me.
“Yiss, ’tis me,” sez Silver Tongue, a smoile breakin’ over his gran’
ould face.
“Tell me, phat will we be afther doin’ wid thim Suff-Rage-Etts whin
they brake out here?” asks he.
“Oi know phat we won’t do,” sez oi.
“Phat’s that?” sez the preemeer. Oi niver call him “Sir”; ’tis a
disfigurement entoirely.
“Phat’s that,” sez he agin, “that we won’t do?” sez he.
“We won’t do phat we shud do,” sez oi. “Punish thim,” sez oi.
“Whoy man, punishin’ thim is no use at all, at all. They loike it.
Shure didn’t they punish thim in London?”
“They did not,” sez oi.
“Man, man,” sez he; “ye anney me. Didn’t they put thim in jail?”
“They did,” sez oi; “but that’s no punishment.”
“Well, phat do ye call punishment?” sez the ould King, wid an expectant
grin.
“Infantile methods,” sez oi. “Phat they do to bad childer.”
“An’ plaze ye, phat’s that?” sez he.
“Spank thim,” sez oi; “savin’ yer prisince. Wan spank fer the furst
offinse; foive fer the sicond, an’ twinty-foive fer the third.”
Well, begorrah, ye shud hev seen the ould lad laff. He thrun up his
hans an’ his oyes to hiven, an’ laffed till he was weepin’.
“Glory be,” sez he; “but ye are a joker. Bad scran to ye, if we
perpetrated such an’ outrage the whole wirld wud laff at us.”
“Not a whit,” sez oi. “The wirld wud laff, true fer ye, but not at ye;
at the Suff-Rage-Etts; an’ they niver cud stan’ bein’ laffed at.”
“Suppose now,” sez oi; “yer departmint of the interior afther makin’
a bit av a rumble, as it do sometimes, shud desoid that the noise it
med waz just as nice a noise as phat ye made wid yer vocal chords; an’
accordin’ it wint on stroike an’ rayfused to do its offis, declarin’ it
waz a musical box--what wud become av ye whin ye culdent hear yerself
spake fer yer loud internal rumblin’, an’ no digistin’ goin’ on the
whoile? Shure ye’d be dead in a week, an’ ye’d take strong medicine to
korrec yer rumblin’ and prideful innards.”
“Well, ’tis spankin’ is the medicin I perscroibe fer the disease of the
Suff-Rage-Ett; an’ they must git it befure they get healthy agin. Oi
moind me frind Casey, who wint wan toime to a Dochther about his woife,
who cut up the very Divil wid phat she called High Stroikes. Wan Sundah
she clawed the shirt buzzum roight off him, so he culdent go to mass.
Well, oim tellin’ ye wan day Casey consults a dochther. The dochther
was a woize guy. He looked Lizzie over. That waz her name, an’ she waz
a great, good looker, an’ only about twinty years ould. An’ he sez to
Casey, sez he, whin he got him alone:
“Ile give ye a perscripthion fer her,” sez he.
“Yiss,” sez Casey.
“Yiss,” sez the dochther, “’tis very simple.”
“Yiss,” sez Casey; all attention.
“Yiss,” sez the dochther, “give her a wet towel,” sez he.
“How’s that?” sez Casey. “A wet towel?”
“Yes; bate her wid it till she’s a noice pink,” sez he.
“Howley murdher,” sez Casey, “yer laffin’ at me.”
“Oi am not,” sez the dochther. “Troy it,” sez he.
“Well, how much is that?” sez Casey.
“Foive dallars,” sez the dochther.
Casey jumped a yard.
“Now, look here,” sez he; “a joke’s a joke; but a wet towel
perscription fer that money is no joke. Tell ye phat oi’ll do wid ye.
Ile troy it, an’ if it does the thrick an’ cures her, ile come an’ pay
ye, an’ Lizzie will do yer laundry fer a month to boot,” sez oi.
“Done,” sez the dochther.
That dochther got paid.
“An’ that’s phat oi think av thim Suff-Rage-Etts,” sez oi, turnin’
to enjoy the ould lad’s smoile. As oi looked, he faded away into the
atmosphere, an oi knew another plisant drame waz over.
[Illustration]
It may be that thou hast few moves to make and it may happen that
thou hast many, whether few or many let thy moves be made with due
deliberation and after careful consideration of the rules of Duty and
Honor.