me uncle Mike cud niver get a shot at a redcoat, though he searched
high an' low f'r wan. Thin a big rain-storm come, an' they was no
tents to protect thim; an' they set aroun', shiverin' an' swearin'. Me
uncle Mike was a bit iv a politician; an' he organized a meetin' iv
th' lads that had come over with him, an' sint a comity to wait on th'
major gin'ral. 'Dorney,' says me uncle Mike, f'r he was chairman iv
th' comity, 'Dorney,' he says, 'me an' me associated warriors wants to
know,' he says. 'What d'ye mane?' says Dorney. 'Ye brought us up
here,' says me uncle Mike, 'to fight the British,' he says. 'If ye
think,' he says, 'that we come over,' he says, 'to engage in a six
days' go-as-you-please walkin' match,' he says, 'ye'd betther go an'
have ye'er head looked into,' he says. 'Have ye anny British around
here? Have ye e'er a Sassenach concealed about ye'er clothes?' he
says. 'We can't do annything if they won't stand f'r us,' says Dorney.
'Thin,' says me uncle Mike, 'I wash me hands iv th' whole invasion,'
he says. 'I'll throuble ye f'r me voucher,' he says. 'I'm goin back to
a counthry where they grow men that 'll stand up an' fight back,' he
says; an' he an' his la-ads wint over to Buf-falo, an' was locked up
f'r rivolution.
"Me uncle Mike come home on th' bumpers iv a freight car, which is th'
way most rivolutioners come home, excipt thim that comes home in th'
baggage car in crates. 'Uncle Mike,' says I to him, 'what's war like,
annyhow?' 'Well,' says he, 'in some rayspicts it is like missin' th'
last car,' he says; 'an' in other rayspicts 'tis like gettin' gay in
front iv a polis station,' he says. An', by dad, whin I come to think
what they call wars nowadays, I believe me uncle Mike was right. 'Twas
different whin I was a lad. They had wars in thim days that was wars."
THE RULING CLASS.
"I see be th' pa-apers," said Mr. Dooley, "that arnychy's torch do be
lifted, an' what it means I dinnaw; but this here I know, Jawn, that
all arnychists is inimies iv governmint, an' all iv thim ought to be
hung f'r th' first offence an' bathed f'r th' second. Who are they,
annyhow, but foreigners, an' what right have they to be holdin'
torchlight procissions in this land iv th' free an' home iv th' brave?
Did ye iver see an American or an Irishman an arnychist? No, an' ye
niver will. Whin an Irishman thinks th' way iv thim la-ads, he goes on
th' polis force an' dhraws his eighty-three-thirty-three f'r throwin'
lodgin'-house bums into th' pathrol wagon. An' there ye a-are.
"I niver knowed but th' wan arnychist, an' he was th' divvle an' all
f'r slaughtherin' th' rich. He was a Boolgahrian man that lived down
be Cologne Sthreet, acrost th' river; but he come over to Bridgeport
whin he did have his skates on him, f'r th' liftenant over there was
again arnychists, an' 'twas little our own Jawnny Shea cared f'r thim
so long as they didn't bother him. Well, sir, this here man's name was
Owsky or something iv that sort, but I always called him Casey be way
iv a joke. He had whiskers on him like thim on a cokynut, an' I heerd
he swore an oath niver to get shaved till he killed a man that wore a
stove-pipe hat.
"Be that as it may, Jawn, he was a most ferocious man. Manny's th'
time I've heerd him lecture to little Matt Doolan asleep like a log
behind th' stove. What a-are we comin' to?' he'd say. 'What a-are we
comin' to?' D'ye mind, Jawn, that's th' way he always began. 'Th' poor
do be gettin' richer,' says he, 'an' th' rich poorer,' says he. 'Th'
governmint,' says he, 'is in th' hands iv th' monno-polists,' he says,
'an' they're crushin' th' life out iv th' prolotoorios.' A
prolotoorio, Jawn, is th' same thing as a hobo. 'Look at th' Willum
Haitch Vanderbilts,' says he, 'an' th' Gools an' th' Astors,' says he,
'an' thin look at us,' he says, 'groun' down,' he says, 'till we cries
f'r bread on th' sthreet,' he says; 'an' they give us a stone,' he
says. 'Dooley,' he says, 'fetch in a tub iv beer, an' lave th' collar
off,' he says.
"Doolan 'd wake up with a start, an' applaud at that. He was a little
tailor-man that wurruked in a panthry down town, an' I seen him weep
whin a dog was r-run over be a dhray. Thin Casey 'd call on Doolan f'r
to stand his ground an' desthroy th' polis,--'th' onions iv th'
monno-polists,' he called thim,--an' Doolan 'd say, 'Hear, hear,' till
I thrun thim both out.
"I thought me frind Casey 'd be taken up f'r histin' a polisman f'r
sure, though, to be fair with him, I niver knowed him to do but wan
arnychist thing, and that was to make faces at Willum Joyce because he
lived in a two-story an' bay-window brick house. Doolan said that was
goin' too far, because Willum Joyce usually had th' price. Wan day
Casey disappeared, an' I heerd he was married. He niver showed up f'r
a year; an', whin he come in, I hardly knowed him. His whiskers had
been filed an' his hair cut, an' he was dhressed up to kill. He wint
into th' back room, an' Doolan was asleep there. He woke him, an' made
a speech to him that was full iv slaughther and bloodshed. Pretty soon
in come a little woman, with a shawl over her head,--a little German
lady. Says she, 'Where's me hoosband?' in a German brogue ye cud cut
with an ax. 'I don't know ye'er husband, ma'am,' says I. 'What's his
name?' She told me, an' I seen she was Casey's wife; 'He's in there,'
I says. 'In back,' I says, 'talking to Doolan, th' prolotoorio.' I
wint back with her, an' there was Casey whalin' away. 'Ar-re ye men or
ar-re ye slaves?' he says to Doolan. 'Julius,' says his wife, 'vat ye
doin' there, ye blackgaard,' she says. 'Comin' ze, or be hivens I'll
break ye'er jaw,' she says. Well, sir, he turned white, an' come over
as meek as a lamb. She grabbed him be th' arm an' led him off, an'
'twas th' last I seen iv him.
"Afther a while Doolan woke up, an' says he, 'Where's me frind?'
'Gone,' says I. 'His wife came in, an' hooked him off.' 'Well,' says
Doolan, ''tis on'y another victhry iv the rulin' classes,' he says."
THE OPTIMIST.
"Aho," said Mr. Dooley, drawing a long, deep breath. "Ah-ho, glory be
to th' saints!"
He was sitting out in front of his liquor shop with Mr. McKenna, their
chairs tilted against the door-posts. If it had been hot elsewhere,
what had it been in Archey Road? The street-car horses reeled in the
dust from the tracks. The drivers, leaning over the dash-boards,
flogged the brutes with the viciousness of weakness. The piles of coke
in the gas-house yards sent up waves of heat like smoke. Even the
little girls playing on the sidewalks were flaming pink in color. But
the night saw Archey Road out in all gayety, its flannel shirt open at
the breast to the cooling blast and the cries of its children filling
the air. It also saw Mr. Dooley luxuriating like a polar bear, and
bowing cordially to all who passed.
"Glory be to th' saints," he said, "but it's been a thryin' five days.
I've been mean enough to commit murdher without th' strength even to
kill a fly. I expect to have a fight on me hands; f'r I've insulted
half th' road, an' th' on'y thing that saved me was that no wan was
sthrong enough to come over th' bar. 'I cud lick ye f'r that, if it
was not so hot,' said Dorsey, whin I told him I'd change no bill f'r
him. 'Ye cud not,' says I, 'if 'twas cooler,' I says. It's cool enough
f'r him now. Look, Jawn dear, an' see if there's an ice-pick undher me
chair.
"It 'd be more thin th' patience iv Job 'd stand to go through such
weather, an' be fit f'r society. They's on'y wan man in all th'
wurruld cud do it, an' that man's little Tim Clancy. He wurruks out in
th' mills, tin hours a day, runnin' a wheelbarrow loaded with
cindhers. He lives down beyant. Wan side iv his house is up again a
brewery, an' th' other touches elbows with Twinty-Percint Murphy's
flats. A few years back they found out that he didn't own on'y th'
front half iv th' lot, an' he can set on his back stoop an' put his
feet over th' fince now. He can, faith. Whin he's indures, he breathes
up th' chimbley; an' he has a wife an' eight kids. He dhraws wan
twinty-five a day--whin he wurruks.
"He come in here th' other night to talk over matthers; an' I was
stewin' in me shirt, an' sayin' cross things to all th' wurruld fr'm
th' tail iv me eye. ''Tis hot,' says I. ''Tis war-rum,' he says. ''Tis
dam hot,' says I. 'Well,' he says, ''tis good weather f'r th' crops,'
he says. 'Things grows in this weather. I mind wanst,' he says, 'we
had days just like these, an' we raised forty bushels iv oats to an
acre,' he says. 'Whin Neville, th' landlord, come with wagons to take
it off, he was that surprised ye cud iv knocked him down with a
sthraw. 'Tis great growin' weather,' he says. An', Jawn, by dad,
barrin' where th' brewery horse spilt oats on th' durestep an' th'
patches iv grass on th' dump, sare a growin' thing but childher has
that little man seen in twinty years.
"'Twas hotter whin I seen him nex', an' I said so. ''Tis war-rum,' he
says, laughin'. 'By dad, I think th' ice 'll break up in th' river
befure mornin',' he says. 'But look how cold it was last winter,' he
says. 'Th' crops need weather like this,' he says. I'd like to have
hit him with a chair. Sundah night I wint over to see him. He was
sittin' out in front, with a babby on each knee. 'Good avnin',' says
I. 'Good avnin',' he says. 'This is th' divvle's own weather,' I says.
'I'm suffocatin'.' ''Tis quite a thaw,' he says. 'How's all th'
folks?' says I. 'All well, thank ye kindly,' he says. 'save an' except
th' wife an' little Eleen,' he says. 'They're not so well,' he says.
'But what can ye expect? They've had th' best iv health all th' year.'
'It must be har-rd wurrukin' at th' mills this weather,' I says. ''Tis
war-rum,' he says; 'but ye can't look f'r snow-storms this time iv th'
year,' he says. 'Thin,' says he, 'me mind's taken aff th' heat be me
wurruk,' he says. 'Dorsey that had th' big cinder-pile--the wan near
th' fence--was sun-struck Fridah, an' I've been promoted to his job.
'Tis a most res-sponsible place,' he says; 'an' a man, to fill it
rightly an' properly, has no time to think f'r th' crops,' he says.
An' I wint away, lavin' him singin' 'On th' Three-tops' to th' kids on
his knees.
"Well, he comes down th' road tonight afther th' wind had turned, with
his old hat on th' back iv his head, whistlin' 'Th' Rambler fr'm
Clare' and I stopped to talk with him. 'Glory be,' says I, ''tis
pleasant to breathe th' cool air,' says I. 'Ah,' he says, ''tis a rale
good avnin',' he says. 'D'ye know,' he says, 'I haven't slept much
these nights, f'r wan reason 'r another. But,' he says, 'I'm afraid
this here change won't be good f'r th' crops,' he says. 'If we'd had
wan or two more war-rum days an' thin a sprinkle iv rain,' he says,
'how they would grow, how they would grow!'"
Mr. Dooley sat up in his chair, and looked over at Mr. McKenna.
"Jawn," he said, "d'ye know that, whin I think iv th' thoughts that's
been in my head f'r a week, I don't dare to look Tim Clancy in th'
face."
PROSPERITY.
"Th' defeat iv Humanity be Prosperity was wan iv th' raysults iv th'
iliction," said Mr. Dooley.
"What are you talking about?" asked Mr. McKenna, gruffly.
"Well," said Mr. Dooley, "I thought it was McKinley an' Hobart that
won out, but I see now that it's McKinley an' Prosperity. If Bryan had
been elected, Humanity would have had a front seat an' a tab. Th'
sufferin's iv all th' wurruld would have ended; an' Jawn H. Humanity
would be in th' White House, throwin' his feet over th' furniture an'
receivin' th' attintions iv diplomats an' pleeniapotentiaries. It was
decided otherwise be th' fates, as th' Good Book says. Prosperity is
th' bucko now. Barrin' a sthrike at th' stock-yards an' a hold-up here
an' there, Prosperity has come leapin' in as if it had jumped fr'm a
springboard. Th' mills are opened, th' factories are goin' to go, th'
railroads are watherin' stocks, long processions iv workin'men are
marchin' fr'm th' pay-car to their peaceful saloons, their wives are
takin' in washin' again, th' price iv wheat is goin' up an' down,
creditors are beginnin' to sue debtors; an' thus all th' wurruld is
merry with th' on'y rational enjoyments iv life.
"An' th' stock exchange has opened. That's wan iv th' strongest signs
iv prosperity. I min' wanst whin me frind Mike McDonald was
controllin' th' city, an' conductin' an exchange down be Clark
Sthreet. Th' game had been goin' hard again th' house. They hadn't
been a split f'r five deals. Whin ivrybody was on th' queen to win,
with th' sivin spot coppered, th' queen won, th' sivin spot lost. Wan
lad amused himsilf be callin' th' turn twinty-wan times in succession,
an' th' check rack was down to a margin iv eleven whites an'
fifty-three cints in change. Mike looked around th' crowd, an' turned
down th' box. 'Gintlemen,' says he, 'th' game is closed. Business
conditions are such,' he says, 'that I will not be able to cash in
ye'er checks,' he says. 'Please go out softly, so's not to disturb
th' gintlemen at th' roulette wheel,' he says, 'an' come back afther
th' iliction, whin confidence is restored an' prosperity returns to
th' channels iv thrade an' industhry,' he says. 'Th' exchange 'll be
opened promptly; an' th' usual rule iv chips f'r money an' money f'r
chips, fifty on cases an' sivinty-five f'r doubles, a hard-boiled egg
an' a dhrink f'r losers, will prevail,' he says. 'Return with th' glad
tidings iv renewed commerce, an' thank th' Lord I haven't took ye'er
clothes.' His was th' first stock exchange we had.
"Yes, Prosperity has come hollerin' an screamin'. To read th' papers,
it seems to be a kind iv a vagrancy law. No wan can loaf anny more.
Th' end iv vacation has gone f'r manny a happy lad that has spint six
months ridin' through th' counthry, dodgin' wurruk, or loafin' under
his own vine or hat-three. Prosperity grabs ivry man be th' neck, an'
sets him shovellin' slag or coke or runnin' up an' down a ladder with
a hod iv mortar. It won't let th' wurruld rest. If Humanity 'd been
victoryous, no wan 'd iver have to do a lick again to th' end iv his
days. But Prosperity's a horse iv another color. It goes round like a
polisman givin' th' hot fut to happy people that are snoozin' in th'
sun. 'Get up,' says Prosperity. 'Get up, an' hustle over to th'
rollin' mills: there's a man over there wants ye to carry a ton iv
coal on ye'er back.' 'But I don't want to wurruk,' says th' lad. 'I'm
very comfortable th' way I am.' 'It makes no difference,' says
Prosperity. 'Ye've got to do ye'er lick. Wurruk, f'r th' night is
comin'. Get out, an' hustle. Wurruk, or ye can't be unhappy; an', if
th' wurruld isn't unhappy, they'se no such a thing as Prosperity.'
"That's wan thing I can't understand," Mr. Dooley went on. "Th'
newspapers is run be a lot iv gazabos that thinks wurruk is th'
ambition iv mankind. Most iv th' people I know 'd be happiest layin'
on a lounge with a can near by, or stretchin' thimsilves f'r another
nap at eight in th' mornin'. But th' papers make it out that there 'd
be no sunshine in th' land without you an' me, Hinnissy, was up before
daybreak pullin' a sthreet-car or poundin' sand with a shovel. I seen
a line, 'Prosperity effects on th' Pinnsylvania Railroad'; an' I read
on to find that th' road intinded to make th' men in their shops
wurruk tin hours instead iv eight, an' it says 'there's no reasons why
they should not wurruk Sundahs iv they choose.' If they choose! An'
what chance has a man got that wants to make th' wurruld brighter an'
happier be rollin' car-wheels but to miss mass an' be at th' shops?"
"We must all work," said Mr. McKenna, sententiously.
"Yes," said Mr. Dooley, "or be wurruked."
THE GREAT HOT SPELL.
It was sultry everywhere, but particularly in Archey Road; for in
summer Archey Road is a tunnel for the south-west wind, which
refreshes itself at the rolling-mill blasts, and spills its wrath upon
the just and the unjust alike. Wherefore Mr. Dooley and Mr. McKenna
were both steaming, as they sat at either side of the door of Mr.
Dooley's place, with their chairs tilted back against the posts.
"Hot," said Mr. McKenna.
"Warrum," said Mr. Dooley.
"I think this is the hottest September that ever was," said Mr.
McKenna.
"So ye say," said Mr. Dooley. "An' that's because ye're a young man, a
kid. If ye was my age, ye'd know betther. How d'ye do, Mrs. Murphy? Go
in, an' fill it ye'ersilf. Ye'll find th' funnel undher th' see-gar
case.--Ye'd know betther thin that. Th' Siptimber iv th' year eighteen
sixty-eight was so much hotter thin this that, if ye wint fr'm wan to
th' other, ye'd take noomoney iv th' lungs,--ye wud so. 'Twas a
remarkable summer, takin' it all in all. On th' Foorth iv July they
was a fut iv ice in Haley's slough, an' I was near flooded out be th'
wather pipe bustin'. A man be th' name iv Maloney froze his hand
settin' off a Roman candle near Main Sthreet, an'--Tin cints, please,
ma'am. Thank ye kindly. How's th' good man?--As I said, it was a
remarkable summer. It rained all August, an' th' boys wint about on
rafts; an' a sthreet-car got lost fr'm th' road, an' I dhrove into th'
canal, an' all on boord--'Avnin', Mike. Ah-ha, 'twas a great fight.
An' Buck got his eye, did he? A good man.
"Well, Jawn, along come Siptimber. It begun fairly warrum, wan
hundherd or so in th' shade; but no wan minded that. Thin it got
hotter an' hotter, an' people begun to complain a little. They was
sthrong in thim days,--not like th' joods they raise now,--an' a
little heat more or less didn't kill thim. But afther a while it was
more thin most iv thim wanted. The sthreet-car thracks got so soft
they spread all over th' sthreet, an' th' river run dhry. Afther
boilin' f'r five days like a--How are ye, Dempsey? Ye don't tell me?
Now th' likes iv him runnin' f'r aldherman! I'd as lave vote f'r th'
tillygraph pole. Well, be good to ye'ersilf. Folks all well? Thanks
be.--They shut off th' furnaces out at th' mills, an' melted th' iron
be puttin' it out in th' sun. Th' puddlers wurruked in iron cases, an'
was kept alive be men playin' a hose on thim fr'm th' packin' house
refrigerator. Wan iv thim poked his head out to light his pipe, an' he
was--Well, well, Timothy, ye are quite a sthranger. Ah, dear oh me,
that's too ba-ad, too ba-ad. I'll tell ye what ye do. Ye rub th' hand
in half iv a potato, an' say tin pather an' avy's over it ivry day f'r
tin days. 'Tis a sure cure. I had wan wanst. Th' kids are thrivin', I
dinnaw? That's good. Betther to hear thim yellin' in th' sthreet thin
th' sound iv th' docthor's gig at th' dure.
"Well, Jawn, things wint fr'm bad to worse. All th' beer in th' house
was mulled; an' Mrs. Dinny Hogan--her that was Odelia O'Brien--burned
her face atin' ice-crame down be th' Italyan man's place, on Halsthed
Sthreet. 'Twas no sthrange sight to see an ice-wagon goin' along th'
sthreet on fire--McCarthy! McCarthy! come over here! Sure, ye're
gettin' proud, passin' by ye'er ol' frinds. How's thricks in th'
Ninth? D'ye think he will? Well, I've heerd that, too; but they was a
man in here to-day that says the Boohemians is out f'r him with axes.
Good-night. Don't forget th' number.
"They was a man be th' name iv Daheny, Jawn, a cousin iv th' wan ye
know, that started to walk up th' r-road fr'm th' bridge. Befure he
got to Halsthed Sthreet, his shoes was on fire. He turned in an alarm;
but th' fire departmint was all down on Mitchigan Avnoo, puttin' out
th' lake, an'"--"Putting out what?" demanded Mr. McKenna.
"Puttin' out th' lake," replied Mr. Dooley, stolidly. "They was no
insurance--A good avnin' to ye, Mrs. Doyle. Ye're goin' over, thin? I
was there las' night, an' a finer wake I niver see. They do nawthin'
be halves. How was himsilf? As natural as life? Yes, ma'am, rayqueem
high mass, be carredges to Calv'ry.
"On th' twinty-fifth iv Siptimber a change come. It was very sudden;
an', steppin' out iv th' ice-box where I slept in th' mornin', I got a
chill. I wint for me flannels, an' stopped to look at th'
thermomether. It was four hundherd an' sixty-five."
"How much?" asked Mr. McKenna.
"Four hundherd an' sixty-five."
"Fahrenheit?"
"No, it belonged to Dorsey. Ah! well, well, an' here's Cassidy. Come
in, frind, an' have a shell iv beer. I've been tellin' Jawnny about
th' big thaw iv eighteen sixty-eight. Feel th' wind, man alive. 'Tis
turnin' cool, an' we'll sleep to-night."
KEEPING LENT.
Mr. McKenna had observed Mr. Dooley in the act of spinning a long,
thin spoon in a compound which reeked pleasantly and smelt of the
humming water of commerce; and he laughed and mocked at the
philosopher.
"Ah-ha," he said, "that's th' way you keep Lent, is it? Two weeks from
Ash Wednesday, and you tanking up."
Mr. Dooley went on deliberately to finish the experiment, leisurely
dusting the surface with nutmeg and tasting the product before setting
down the glass daintily. Then he folded his apron, and lay back in
ample luxury while he began: "Jawn, th' holy season iv Lent was sent
to us f'r to teach us th' weakness iv th' human flesh. Man proposes,
an' th' Lord disposes, as Hinnissy says.
"I mind as well as though it was yesterday th' struggle iv me father
f'r to keep Lent. He began to talk it a month befure th' time. 'On Ash
Winsdah,' he'd say, 'I'll go in f'r a rale season iv fast an'
abstinince,' he'd say. An' sure enough, whin Ash Winsdah come round at
midnight, he'd take a long dhraw at his pipe an' knock th' ashes out
slowly again his heel, an' thin put th' dhudeen up behind th' clock.
'There,' says he, 'there ye stay till Easter morn,' he says. Ash
Winsdah he talked iv nawthin but th' pipe. ''Tis exthraordinney how
easy it is f'r to lave off,' he says. 'All ye need is will power,' he
says. 'I dinnaw that I'll iver put a pipe in me mouth again. 'Tis a
bad habit, smokin' is,' he says; 'an' it costs money. A man's betther
off without it. I find I dig twict as well,' he says; 'an', as f'r
cuttin' turf, they'se not me like in th' parish since I left off th'
pipe,' he says.
"Well, th' nex' day an' th' nex' day he talked th' same way; but
Fridah he was sour, an' looked up at th' clock where th' pipe was.
Saturdah me mother, thinkin' to be plazin to him, says: 'Terrence,'
she says, 'ye're iver so much betther without th' tobacco,' she says.
'I'm glad to find you don't need it. Ye'll save money,' she says. 'Be
quite, woman,' says he. 'Dear, oh dear,' he says, 'I'd like a pull at
th' clay,' he says. 'Whin Easter comes, plaze Gawd, I'll smoke mesilf
black an' blue in th' face,' he says.
"That was th' beginnin' iv th' downfall. Choosdah he was settin' in
front iv th' fire with a pipe in his mouth. 'Why, Terrence,' says me
mother, 'ye're smokin' again.' 'I'm not,' says he: ''tis a dhry
smoke,' he says; ''tisn't lighted,' he says. Wan week afther th'
swear-off he came fr'm th' field with th' pipe in his face, an' him
puffin' away like a chimney. 'Terrence,' says me mother, 'it isn't
Easter morn.' 'Ah-ho,' says he, 'I know it,' he says; 'but,' he says,
'what th' divvle do I care?' he says. 'I wanted f'r to find out
whether it had th' masthery over me; an',' he says, 'I've proved that
it hasn't,' he says. 'But what's th' good iv swearin' off, if ye don't
break it?' he says. 'An' annyhow,' he says, 'I glory in me shame.'
"Now, Jawn," Mr. Dooley went on, "I've got what Hogan calls a theery,
an' it's this: that what's thrue iv wan man's thrue iv all men. I'm me
father's son a'most to th' hour an' day. Put me in th' County
Roscommon forty year ago, an' I'd done what he'd done. Put him on th'
Ar-rchey Road, an' he'd be deliverin' ye a lecture on th' sin iv
thinkin' ye're able to overcome th' pride iv th' flesh, as Father
Kelly says. Two weeks ago I looked with contimpt on Hinnissy f'r an'
because he'd not even promise to fast an' obstain fr'm croquet durin'
Lent. To-night you see me mixin' me toddy without th' shadow iv
remorse about me. I'm proud iv it. An' why not? I was histin' in me
first wan whin th' soggarth come down fr'm a sick call, an' looked in
at me. 'In Lent?' he says, half-laughin' out in thim quare eyes iv
his. 'Yes,' said I. 'Well,' he says, 'I'm not authorized to say this
be th' propaganda,' he says, 'an' 'tis no part iv th' directions f'r
Lent,' he says; 'but,' he says, 'I'll tell ye this, Martin,' he says,
'that they'se more ways than wan iv keepin' th' season,' he says.
'I've knowed thim that starved th' stomach to feast th' evil temper,'
he says. 'They'se a little priest down be th' Ninth Ward that niver
was known to keep a fast day; but Lent or Christmas tide, day in an'
day out, he goes to th' hospital where they put th' people that has
th' small-pox. Starvation don't always mean salvation. If it did,' he
says, 'they'd have to insure th' pavemint in wan place, an' they'd
be money to burn in another. Not,' he says, 'that I want ye to
undherstand that I look kindly on th' sin iv'--
"''Tis a cold night out,' says I.
"'Well,' he says, th' dear man, 'ye may. On'y,' he says, ''tis Lent.'
"'Yes,' says I.
"'Well, thin,' he says, 'by ye'er lave I'll take but half a lump iv
sugar in mine,' he says."
THE QUICK AND THE DEAD.
Mr. Dooley and Mr. McKenna sat outside the ample door of the little
liquor store, the evening being hot, and wrapped their legs around the
chair, and their lips around two especially long and soothing drinks.
They talked politics and religion, the people up and down the street,
the chances of Murphy, the tinsmith, getting on the force, and a great
deal about the weather. A woman in white started Mr. McKenna's nerves.