a dillygate to ivry town convention iv th' Raypublicans since I dinnaw
whin. 'Well,' says he, 'I see they're pilin' it on,' he says. 'On th'
dead?' says I, be way iv a joke. 'No,' he says; 'but did ye see
they're puttin' up a monnymint over th' rebils out here be Oakwoods?'
he says. 'By gar,' he says, ''tis a disgrace to th' mim'ries iv thim
devoted dead who died f'r their counthry,' he says. 'If,' he says, 'I
cud get ninety-nine men to go out an' blow it up, I'd be th'
hundherth,' he says. 'Yes,' says I, 'ye wud,' I says. 'Ye'd be th'
last,' I says.
"Doherty was movin' up to him. 'What rig'mint?' says he. 'What's
that?' says O'Toole. 'Did ye inlist in th' army, brave man?' says Pat.
'I swore him over age,' says I. 'Was ye dhrafted in?' says th' little
man. 'No,' says O'Toole. 'Him an' me was in th' same cellar,' says I.
'Did ye iver hear iv Ree-saca, 'r Vicksburg, 'r Lookout Mountain?' th'
little man wint on. 'Did anny man iver shoot at ye with annything but
a siltzer bottle? Did ye iver have to lay on ye'er stummick with ye'er
nose burrid in th' Lord knows what while things was whistlin' over ye
that, if they iver stopped whistlin', 'd make ye'er backbone look like
a broom? Did ye iver see a man that ye'd slept with th' night before
cough, an' go out with his hands ahead iv his face? Did ye iver have
to wipe ye'er most intimate frinds off ye'er clothes, whin ye wint
home at night? Where was he durin' th' war?' he says. 'He was
dhrivin' a grocery wagon f'r Philip Reidy,' says I. 'An' what's he
makin' th' roar about?' says th' little man. 'He don't want anny wan
to get onto him,' says I.
"O'Toole was gone be this time, an' th' little man laned over th' bar.
'Now,' says he, 'what d'ye think iv a gazabo that don't want a
monniment put over some wan? Where is this here pole? I think I'll
go out an' take a look at it. Where 'd ye say th' la-ad come fr'm?
Donaldson? I was there. There was a man in our mess--a Wicklow man be
th' name iv Dwyer--that had th' best come-all-ye I iver heerd. It wint
like this,' an' he give it to me."
THE TRAGEDY OF THE AGITATOR.
"Whin ye come up, did ye see Dorgan?" asked Mr. Dooley.
"Which Dorgan?" asked Mr. McKenna.
"Why, to be sure, Hugh O'Neill Dorgan, him that was sicrety iv Deerin'
Shtreet branch number wan hundred an' eight iv th' Ancient Ordher iv
Scow Unloaders, him that has th' red lambrequin on his throat, that
married th' second time to Dinnihy's aunt an' we give a shivaree to
him. Hivins on earth, don't ye know him?"
"I don't," said Mr. McKenna; "and, if I know him, I haven't seen him."
"Thin ye missed a sight," said Mr. Dooley. "He's ragin' an' tearin'.
He have been a great union man. He'd sthrike on th' moment's
provocation. I seen him wanst, whin some scow unloaders sthruck in
Lemont or some other distant place, put on his coat, lay down his
shovel, an' go out, be hivins, alone. Well, his son goes an' jines th'
Sivinth Rig'mint; an', by gar, th' ol' man, not knowin' about th'
army, he's that proud that he sthruts up an' down th' sthreet with his
thumb in th' vest iv him an' give his son a new shovel, for they was
wurrukin' together on th' scow 'Odelia Ann.' Well, whin th' sthrike
come along, iv coorse th' scow unloaders quits; an' Dorgan an' th'
la-ad goes out together, because they're dhrawin' good wages an' th'
crick do be full iv men r-ready f'r to take their places.
"Well, Dorgan had th' divvle's own time paradin' up an' down an'
sindin' out ordhers to sthrike to ivry man he knowed of till th' la-ad
comes over las' Choosdah avenin', dhressed in his rigimintals with a
gun as long as a clothes-pole over his shoulder. 'Hughey,' said th'
father, 'you look very gran' to-night,' he says. 'Whose fun'ral ar-re
ye goin' to at this hour?' 'None but thim I makes mesilf,' says he.
'What d'ye mean?' says th' ol' man. 'I'm goin' over f'r to stand guard
in th' thracks,' says th' la-ad. Well, with that th' ol' man leaps up.
'Polisman,' he says. 'Polisman,' he says. 'Copper,' he says. 'Twas
on'y be Mrs. Dorgan comin' in an' quitein' th' ol' man with a chair
that hostilities was averted--as th' pa-apers says--right there an'
thin.
"Well, sir, will ye believe me, whin Dorgan wint over with th' mimbers
iv' th' union that night f'r to bur-rn something, there was me brave
Hughey thrampin' up an' down like a polisman on bate. Dorgan goes up
an' shakes his fist at him, an' th' la-ad gives him a jab with his
bayonet that makes th' poor ol' man roar like a bull. 'In th' name iv
th' people iv th' State iv Illinys,' he says, 'disperse,' he says, 'ye
riter,' he says; 'an', if ye don't go home,' he says, 'ye ol'
omadhon,' he says, 'I'll have ye thrun into jail,' he says.
"Dorgan haven't got over it yet. It dhruv him to a sick-bed."
BOYNE WATER AND BAD BLOOD.
"Jawn," said Mr. Dooley to Mr. McKenna, "what did th' Orangeys do
to-day?"
"They had a procession," said Mr. McKenna.
"Was it much, I dinnaw?"
"Not much."
"That's good," said Mr. Dooley. "That's good. They don't seem to be
gettin' anny sthronger, praise be! Divvle th' sthraw do I care f'r
thim. They niver harmed hair nor head iv me; an' they ain't likely to,
ayether, so long as th' R-road keeps th' way it is. Faith, 'twud be a
fine pot iv porridge th' like iv thim 'd ate if they come up into
Ar-rchey Road. I'm an ol' man, Jawn,--though not so ol' at that,--but
I'd give tin years iv me life to see an Orange procession west on
Ar-rchey Road with th' right flank restin' on Halsthed Sthreet. It 'd
rest there. Th' Lord knows it wud.
"Jawn, I have no dislike to th' Orangeys. Nawthin' again thim. I'd not
raise me hand to thim, I wud not, though me cousin Tim was kilt be wan
iv thim dhroppin' a bolt on his skull in th' ship-yards in Belfast.
'Twas lucky f'r that there Orangey he spoke first. Me cousin Tim had a
ship-ax in his hand that'd 've evened things up f'r at laste wan iv
th' poor pikemen that Sarsfield had along with him. But I've nawthin'
again thim at that but th' wan that kilt Tim. I'd like to meet that
lad in some quite place like th' Clan-na-Gael picnic on th' fifteenth
iv August, some place where we'd have fair play.
"Jawn, live an' let live is me motto. On'y I say this here, that 'tis
a black disgrace to Chicago f'r to let th' likes iv thim thrapze about
th' sthreets with their cheap ol' flags an' ribbons. Oh dear, oh dear,
if Pathrick's Day on'y come some year on' th' twelfth day iv July!
Where 'd they be, where 'd they be?
"D'ye know things is goin' to th' dogs in this town, Jawn, avick? Sure
they are, faith. I mind th' time well whin an Orangey 'd as lave go
through hell in a celluloid suit as march in this here town on the
twelfth iv July. I raymimber wanst they was a man be th' name iv
Morgan Dempsey,--a first cousin iv thim Dempseys that lives in Cologne
Sthreet,--an' he was a Roscommon man, too, an' wan iv th' cutest
divvles that iver breathed th' breath iv life.
"Well, whin th' day come f'r th' Orangeys to cillybrate th' time whin
King Willum--may th' divvle hould him!--got a stand-off,--an' 'twas no
betther, Jawn, f'r th' Irish'd 've skinned him alive if th' poor ol'
gaby iv an English king hadn't ducked--What's that? Don't I know it? I
have a book at home written be an impartial historyan, Pathrick Clancy
Duffy, to prove it. What was I sayin'? Whin' th' twelfth day iv July
come around an' th' Orangeys got ready to cillybrate th' day King
Willum, with all his Gatlin' guns an' cannon, just barely sthud off
Sarsfield an' his men that had on'y pikes an' brickbats an' billyard
cues, th' good people was infuryated. I dinnaw who was th' mayor in
thim days. He was niver ilicted again. But, annyhow, he give it out
that th' Orangeys' procission must not be hurted. An' all th'
newspapers asked th' good people to be quite, an' it was announced at
high mass an' low mass that annywan that sthruck a blow 'd be
excommunicated.
"Well, ye know how it is whin modheration is counselled, Jawn.
Modheration is another name f'r murdheration. So they put two platoons
iv polismen in front iv th' Orangeys an' three behind, an' a double
column alongside; an' away they wint.
"No wan intherfered with thim; an' that didn't plaze Morgan Dempsey,
who 'd served his time a calker in a ship-yard. Bein' iv a injaneyous
disposition, he made up his mind f'r to do something to show that
pathrietism wasn't dead in this counthry. So he got up in a hallway in
Washington Sthreet, an' waited. Th' procission come with th' polismen
in front an' behind an' along th' sides, an' th' German Band, thryin'
to keep wan eye on the house-tops on both sides iv th' sthreet, an' to
read th' music iv c Lillibullero' an' 'Croppies lie down' an' 'Boyne
Wather' with th' other. Th' Orangeys didn't look up. They kept their
eyes pointed sthraight ahead, I'll say that f'r thim. They're
murdherin' vilyans; but they're Irish, iv a sort.
"Whin they come by Dempsey, he pokes his head out iv th' dure; an'
says he, 'Th' 'ell with all th' Prowtestant bishops.' Now that same
over in Derry 'd have had all th' tilin's in town flyin'; but th'
Orangeys 'd been warned not to fight, an' they wint sthraight on, on'y
they sung 'Lillibullero.' Did ye niver hear it? It goes _(singing)_
'Ho! Brother Teigue, dost hear in th' degree?'
"Th' Lord f'rgive me f'r singin' it, Jawn. See if there's anny wan
near th' dure.
"Well, whin they got through, Dempsey puts his hands to his mouth, an'
yells, 'Th' 'ell with King Willum.' That was more thin th' Orangeys
cud stand. They halted as wan man, an' roared out, 'Th' 'ell with th'
pope.' 'What's that?' says th' captain iv th' polis foorce. He was a
man be th' name of Murphy, an' he was blue with rage f'r havin' to
lead th' Orangeys. 'Ma-arch on, Brass Money,' says th' Orange marshal.
Murphy pulled him fr'm his horse; an' they wint at it, club an' club.
Be that time th' whole iv th' line was ingaged. Ivry copper belted an
Orangey; an' a sergeant named Donahue wint through a whole lodge,
armed on'y, Jawn, with a clarinet an' wan cymbal. He did so. An'
Morgan Dempsey, th' cute divvle, he sthood by, an' encouraged both
sides. F'r, next to an Orangey, he likes to see a polisman kilt. That
ended wan Orangey parade.
"Not that I think it was right. I suppose they ought to be left walk
about, an' I'm a fair man. If th' blackest iv thim wint by now, I'd
not raise me hand"--
"Hello," says Mr. McKenna, "here goes Killen, the Armagh man. They say
he digs with his left foot."
"Jawn," said Mr. Dooley, eagerly, "if ye run up on th' roof, ye'll
find th' bricks loose in th' top row iv th' chimbley. Ye might hand
him a few."
THE FREEDOM PICNIC.
"There's wan thing about th' Irish iv this town," said Mr. Dooley.
"The police?" said Mr. McKenna.
"No," said the philosopher. "But they give picnics that does bate all.
Be hivins, if Ireland cud be freed be a picnic, it 'd not on'y be free
to-day, but an impire, begorra, with Tim Haley, th' Banthry man,
evictin' Lord Salisbury fr'm his houldin'. 'Twud that.
"Jawn, th' la-ads have got th' thrick iv freein' Ireland down to a
sinsible basis. In th' ol' days they wint over with dinnymite bumbs in
their pockets, an' ayether got their rowlers on thim in Cork an' blew
thimsilves up or was arristed in Queenstown f'r disordherly conduct.
'Twas a divvle iv a risky job to be a pathrite in thim days, an' none
but those that had no wan dipindint on thim cud affoord it. But what
was th' use? Ireland wint on bein' th' same opprissed green oil it had
always been, an' th' on'y difference th' rivolutions made was ye sa-aw
new faces on th' bridges an' th' Wolfe Tones passed another set iv
resolutions.
"'Tis different now. Whin we wants to smash th' Sassenach an' restore
th' land iv th' birth iv some iv us to her thrue place among th'
nations, we gives a picnic. 'Tis a dam sight asier thin goin' over
with a slug iv joynt powder an' blowin' up a polis station with no wan
in it. It costs less; an', whin 'tis done, a man can lep aboord a
sthreet ca-ar, an' come to his family an' sleep it off.
"I wint out last Choosdah, an' I suppose I must 've freed as much as
eight counties in Ireland. All th' la-ads was there. Th' first ma-an I
see was Dorgan, the sanyor guarjeen in the Wolfe Tone Lithry Society.
He's th' la-ad that have made th' Prince iv Wales thrimble in his
moccasins. I heerd him wanst makin' a speech that near injooced me to
take a bumb in me hand an' blow up Westminsther Cathedral. 'A-re ye,'
he says, 'men, or a-re ye slaves?' he says. 'Will ye,' he says, 'set
idly by,' he says, 'while th' Sassenach,' he says, 'has th' counthry
iv Immitt an' O'Connell,' he says, 'an' Jawn Im Smyth,' he says,
'undher his heel?' he says. 'Arouse,' he says, 'slaves an' despots!'
he says. 'Clear th' way!' he says. 'Cowards an' thraitors!' he says.
'Faugh-a-ballagh!' he says. He had th' beer privilege at th' picnic,
Jawn.
"Hinnissy, th' plumber, who blew wan iv his fingers off with a bumb
intinded f'r some iv th' archytecture iv Liverpool, had th' conthract
f'r runnin' th' knock-th'-babby-down-an'-get-a-nice-seegar jint. F'r
th' good iv th' cause I knocked th' babby down, Jawn, an' I on'y wish
th' Queen iv England 'r th' Prince iv Wales cud be injooced to smoke
wan iv th' seegars. Ye might as well go again a Roman candle. Th' wan
I got was made iv baled hay, an' 'twas rumored about th' pa-ark that
Hinnissy was wurrukin' off his surplus stock iv bumbs on th'
pathrites. His cousin Darcey had th' shootin' gallery privilege, an'
he done a business th' like iv which was niver knowed be puttin' up
th' figure iv an Irish polisman f'r th' la-ads to shoot at. 'Twas bad
in th' end though, f'r a gang iv Tipp'rary lads come along behind th'
tent an' begun thrown stones at th' copper. Wan stone hit a Limerick
man, an' th' cry 'butthermilk' wint around; an' be hivins, if it
hadn't been that th' chief iv polis, th' wise la-ad, sint none but
German polismen to th' picnic, there 'd not been a man left to tell th'
tale."
"What's that all got to do with freeing Ireland?" asked Mr. McKenna.
"Well, 'tis no worse off thin it was befure, annyhow," said Mr.
Dooley.
THE IDLE APPRENTICE.
"They hanged a man to-day," said Mr. Dooley.
"They did so," said Mr. McKenna.
"Did he die game?"
"They say he did."
"Well, he did," said Mr. Dooley. "I read it all in th' pa-apers. He
died as game as if he was wan iv th' Christyan martyrs instead iv a
thief that 'd hit his man wan crack too much. Saint or murdherer, 'tis
little difference whin death comes up face front.
"I read th' story iv this man through, Jawn; an', barrin' th' hangin',
'tis th' story iv tin thousan' like him. D'ye raymimber th' Carey kid?
Ye do. Well, I knowed his grandfather; an' a dacinter ol' man niver
wint to his jooty wanst a month. Whin he come over to live down be th'
slip, 'twas as good a place as iver ye see. Th' honest men an' honest
women wint as they pleased, an' laid hands on no wan. His boy Jim was
as straight as th' r-roads in Kildare, but he took to dhrink; an',
whin Jack Carey was born, he was a thramp on th' sthreets an' th' good
woman was wurrukin' down-town, scrubbin' away at th' flures in th'
city hall, where Dennehy got her.
"Be that time around th' slip was rough-an'-tumble. It was dhrink an'
fight ivry night an' all day Sundah. Th' little la-ads come together
under sidewalks, an' rushed th' can over to Burke's on th' corner an'
listened to what th' big lads tol' thim. Th' first instruction that
Jack Carey had was how to take a man's pocket handkerchief without his
feelin' it, an' th' nex' he had was larnin' how to get over th' fence
iv th' Reform School at Halsted Sthreet in his stockin' feet.
"He was a thief at tin year, an' th' polis 'd run f'r him if he'd
showed his head. At twelve they sint him to th' bridewell f'r breakin'
into a freight car. He come out, up to anny game. I see him whin he
was a lad hardly to me waist stand on th' roof iv Finucane's Hall an'
throw bricks at th' polisman.
"He hated th' polis, an' good reason he had f'r it. They pulled him
out iv bed be night to search him. If he turned a corner, they ran him
f'r blocks down th' sthreet. Whin he got older, they begun shootin' at
him; an' it wasn't manny years befure he begun to shoot back. He was
right enough whin he was in here. I cud conthrol him. But manny th'
night whin he had his full iv liquor I've see him go out with his gun
in his outside pocket; an' thin I'd hear shot after shot down th'
sthreet, an' I'd know him an' his ol' inimy Clancy 'd met an' was
exchangin' compliments. He put wan man on th' polis pension fund with
a bullet through his thigh.
"They got him afther a while. He'd kept undher cover f'r months,
livin' in freight cars an' hidin' undher viadocks with th' pistol in
his hand. Wan night he come out, an' broke into Schwartzmeister's
place. He sneaked through th' alley with th' German man's damper in
his arms, an' Clancy leaped on him fr'm th' fence. Th' kid was tough,
but Clancy played fut-ball with th' Finerty's on Sundah, an' was
tougher; an', whin th' men on th' other beats come up, Carey was
hammered so they had to carry him to th' station an' nurse him f'r
trile.
"He wint over th' road, an' come back gray an' stooped, I was afraid
iv th' boy with his black eyes; an' wan night he see me watchin' him,
an' he says: 'Ye needn't be afraid,' he says. 'I won't hurt ye. Ye're
not Clancy,' he says,
"I tol' Clancy about it, but he was a brave man; an' says he: ''Tis
wan an' wan, an' a thief again an' honest man. If he gets me, he must
get me quick.' Th' nex' night about dusk he come saunterin' up th'
sthreet, swingin' his club an' jokin with his frind, whin some wan
shouted, 'Look out, Clancy.' He was not quick enough. He died face
forward, with his hands on his belt; an' befure all th' wurruld Jack
Carey come across th' sthreet, an' put another ball in his head.
"They got him within twinty yards iv me store. He was down in th'
shadow iv th' house, an' they was shootin' at him fr'm roofs an'
behind barns. Whin he see it was all up, he come out with his eyes
closed, firin' straight ahead; an' they filled him so full iv lead he
broke th' hub iv th' pathrol wagon takin' him to th' morgue."
"It served him right," said Mr. McKenna.
"Who?" said Mr. Dooley. "Carey or Clancy?"
THE O'BRIENS FOREVER.
"I think, by dad," said Mr. Dooley, "that Hinnissy's crazy."
"I always thought so," said Mr. McKenna, amiably. "But what's he been
doin' of late?"
"Well, I took him down to see th' good la-ads havin' fun with th'
opprissors iv th' people at th' Colliseem,' said Mr. Dooley. "I had no
ticket, an' he had none. Th' frinds iv honest money had give thim all
to Jawn P. Hopkins's la-ads. They're frinds iv honest money, whin
they'se no other in sight. But I'd like to see anny goold-bug or
opprissor iv th' people keep th' likes iv me an' Hinnissy out iv a
convintion. We braced up to wan iv th' dures, an' a man stopped
Hinnissy. 'Who ar-re ye?' he says. "I am a Dimmycrat,' says Hinnissy.
'Is ye'er name Hill?' says th' la-ad. 'It is not,' says Hinnissy. 'I
tol' ye I'm a Dimmycrat; an',' he says, 'I'll have no man call me out
iv me name.' Hinnissy was f'r rollin' him on th' flure there an' thin
f'r an insult, but I flagged a polisman. 'Is ye'er name Sullivan?'
says I. 'It is,' says he. 'Roscommon?' says I, fr'm th' way he spoke.
'Sure ye're right,' he says. 'Me name's Dooley,' I says. 'Here,' say
he to th' dure-keeper, 'don't stand in th' way iv th' sinitor iv th'
State iv Mitchigan,' he says. 'Lave him an' his frind go in,' he says.
I minded afther I was good to him whin Simon O'Donnell was chief iv
polis, may he rest in peace!
"Hinnissy an' me got a seat be some dhroll ol' boys fr'm out in Iaway.
Afther a man be th' name iv Martin, a sergeant-iv-arms, had addhressed
th' meetin' twinty or thirty times,--I kep no count iv him,--th'
chairman inthrojooced th' dillygates to nommynate th' big men. It wint
all right with Hinnissy for a little while till a man got up an' shook
his fist at th' chairman. 'What's that? what's that?' says Hinnissy.
'What's that?' he says. 'Hurroo, hurroo,' he says, lammin' th' man
fr'm Iaway with his goold-headed cane. 'What ails ye, man alive?' says
I. 'Why,' he says, 'they've nommynated Billy,' he says. 'Billy who?'
says I. 'Why, Willum J. O'Brien,' he says.
"'A sthrong man,' says he, addhressin' th' man fr'm Iaway. 'I shud say
he was,' says th' man. 'Th' sthrongest man that iver come down th'
road,' says Hinnissy. 'Why,' he says, 'I see that man put up an' eight
iv beer with wan hand,' he says, 'holdin' it be th' rim,' he says.
'None sthronger,' he says. 'But will he carry Illinye?' says th' lad
fr'm Iaway. 'Will he carry Illinye?' says Hinnissy. 'Why, man alive,'
he says, 'I've see him carry a prim'ry in th' sixth precint,' he says.
'Is that enough f'r ye?' he says. 'He's a good speaker,' says th'
Iaway man. 'He is that,' says Hinnissy; 'an' he was wan iv th' best
waltzers that flung a foot at th' County Dimocracy picnic,' he says.
'But will he make a good fight?' says th' man. 'Will he?' says
Hinnissy. 'Will he make a good fight?' he says. 'Dooley,' he says,
'this here Dimmycrat wants to know if Bill 'll make a good fight. Why,'
he says, 'if he iver gets to Washington an' wan iv th' opprissors iv
th' people goes again him, give him Jackson Park or a clothes closet,
gun or soord, ice-pick or billyard cue, chair or stove leg, an'
Bill 'll make him climb a tree,' he says. 'I'd like to see wan iv thim
supreme justices again Bill O'Brien on an income tax or anny other
ord-nance,' he says. 'He'd go in an' lame thim with th' Revised
Statutes.' 'I presume,' says th' lad, 'that ye'er fr'm Omaha.' 'I'll
tear ye'er hair out,' says Hinnissy.'
"'Ye idjit,' says I, whin I had him in th' sthreet, 'it wasn't Bill
O'Brien was nommynated,' says I. 'What ar-re ye talkin' about?' says
he. 'I seen him on th' flure,' he says. 'He had th' sinitor iv
Missoury be th' throat whin ye took me away,' he says.
"I left him there; but he come into th' place at six o'clock, an'
borrid a paper an' pencil. Thin he wint back, an' sat down an' wrote.
'What ar-re ye doin' there?' says I. 'I've wrote a sketch iv th'
nominee f'r th' Stock-yards Sun,' he says. 'Listen to it. Willum J.
O'Brien,' he says, 'was born in th' County iv Mayo forty years ago,'
he says. 'He received a limited education, his parents even thin
designin' him f'r th' Prisidincy. Bein' unable to complete a coorse at
th' rayform school, he wint to wurruk; but soon, tired iv this, he
started a saloon. Fr'm thince he dhrifted into politics, an' become
noted as th' boy welter-weight iv th' South Branch. He was ilicted
aldherman at a time whin comparatively nawthin' was doin' in th'
council. Subsequent he become a sinitor, an' later enthered into
partnership with th' Hon. Jawn Powers in th' retail liquor traffic.
Mr. O'Brien is a fine built man, an' can lick anny wan iv his age west
iv th' river, give 'r take tin pounds, color no bar. His heart bets up
close to th' ribs iv th' common people, an' he would make opprissors
iv th' poor wish they'd died early if ye give him a chance with a beer
bottle. How's that?' says Hinnissy.
"'Worse,' says I. 'Foolish man,' says I. 'Don't ye know that it ain't
our Bill that's been nommynated?' I says. 'This is a Nebraska man,' I
says. 'Well,' he says, 'if 'tis Bill O'Brien, he'd win easy. But,' he
says, 'if 'tis not,' he says, ''tis wan iv th' fam'ly,' he says. 'I'll
change this here novel an' make it a sketch iv th' cousin iv th'
candydate,' he says. An' he wint on with his wurruk."
A CANDIDATE'S PILLORY.
"What's this counthry comin' to, annyhow, that a man that's out f'r to
be Prisident has to set up on a high chair an' be questioned on his
record be a lot iv la-ads that hasn't had annything to do since th'
carpetbeatin' season's ended? "said Mr. Dooley. "Ye'd think Big Bill
was r-runnin' f'r chief ex-icutive iv th' Clan-na-Gael. First along
comes a comity iv th' Sons iv Rest. 'Major,' says they, 'we're
insthructed be th' organization to ascertain ye'er views on th'
important, we may say all-important, question iv havin' wire
matthresses put on th' benches in th' parks. Are we,' they says,
'goin' f'r to have to wear lumps on our backs into all eternity,' they
says, 'an' have our slumbers broke be th' hot fut iv th' polisman?'
they says. 'We demand an answer,' they says, 'or, be this an' be that,
we won't do a thing to ye.' Well, maybe Bill has been down to th'
corner playin' a game iv spoil-five with his old frind Coalsack, an'
has paid no attintion to th' Sons iv Rest. 'Well,' he says,
'gintlemen, I'm in favor iv doin' ivrything in reason f'r th' hoboes,'
he says. 'Th' protection iv th' home hobo again th' pauper can trade
iv Europe,' he says, 'has been wan iv th' principal wurruks iv me
life,' he says; an' he gives thim each a hand out, an' bows thim to
th' dure.