conversation drifted to those interesting phenomena. Mr. Dooley asked
Mr. McKenna if he had ever seen one. Mr. McKenna replied that he
hadn't, and didn't want to. Had Mr. Dooley? "No," said the
philosopher, "I niver did; an' it's always been more thin sthrange to
me that annywan shud come back afther he'd been stuck in a crate five
feet deep, with a ton iv mud upon him. 'Tis onplisint iv thim,
annyhow, not to say ongrateful. F'r mesilf, if I was wanst pushed off,
an' they'd waked me kindly, an' had a solemn rayqueem high mass f'r
me, an' a funeral with Roddey's Hi-beryan band, an' th' A-ho-aitches,
I have too much pride to come back f'r an encore. I wud so, Jawn. Whin
a man's dead, he ought to make th' best iv a bad job, an' not be
thrapsin' around, lookin' f'r throuble among his own kind.
"No, I niver see wan, but I know there are such things; f'r twinty
years ago all th' road was talkin' about how Flaherty, th' tailor,
laid out th' ghost iv Tim O'Grady. O'Grady was a big sthrappin'
Connock man, as wide across th' shoulders as a freight car. He was a
plastherer be thrade whin wages was high, an' O'Grady was rowlin' in
wealth. Ivry Sundah ye'd see him, with his horse an' buggy an' his
goold watch an' chain, in front iv th' Sullivans' house, waitin' f'r
Mary Ann Sullivan to go f'r a buggy ride with him over to McAllister
Place; an' he fin'lly married her, again th' wishes iv Flaherty, who
took to histin' in dhrinks, an' missed his jooty, an' was a scandal in
th' parish f'r six months.
"O'Grady didn't improve with mathrimony, but got to lanin' again th'
ol' stuff, an' walkin' up an' down th' sidewalk in his shirt-sleeves,
with his thumbs stuck in his vest, an' his little pipe turned upside
down; an', whin he see Flaherty, 'twas his custom to run him up an
alley, so that th' little tailor man niver had a minyit iv peace. Ivry
wan supposed he lived in a three most iv th' time, to be out iv th'
way iv O'Grady.
"Well, wan day O'Grady he seen Flaherty walkin' down th' sthreet with
a pair iv lavender pants f'r Willum Joyce to wear to th' Ogden Grove
picnic, an' thried to heave a brick at him. He lost his balance, an'
fell fr'm th' scaffoldin' he was wurrukin' on; an' th' last wurruds he
said was, 'Did I get him or didn't I?' Mrs. O'Grady said it was th'
will iv Gawd; an' he was burrid at Calvary with a funeral iv eighty
hacks, an' a great manny people in their own buggies. Dorsey, th'
conthractor, was there with his wife. He thought th' wurruld an' all
iv O'Grady.
"Wan year aftherward Flaherty begun makin' up to Mrs. O'Grady; an'
ivry wan in th' parish seen it, an' was glad iv it, an' said it was
scandalous. How it iver got out to O'Grady's pew in th' burryin'
ground, I'll niver tell ye, an' th' Lord knows; but wan evenin' th'
ghost iv O'Grady come back. Flaherty was settin' in th' parlor,
smokin' a seegar, with O'Grady's slippers on his feet, whin th' spook
come in in th' mos' natural way in the wurruld, kickin' th' dog. 'What
ar-re ye doin' here, ye little farryer iv pants?' he says. Mrs.
O'Grady was f'r faintin'; but O'Flaherty he says, says he: 'Be quite,'
he says, 'I'll dale with him.' Thin to th' ghost: 'Have ye paid th'
rint here, ye big ape?' he says. 'What d'ye mane be comin' back, whin
th' landlord ain't heerd fr'm ye f'r a year?' he says. Well, O'Grady's
ghost was that surprised he cud hardly speak. 'Ye ought to have
betther manners thin insultin' th' dead,' he says. 'Ye ought to have
betther manners thin to be lavin' ye'er coffin at this hour iv th'
night, an' breakin' in on dacint people,' says Flaherty. 'What good
does it do to have rayqueem masses f'r th' raypose iv th' like iv
you,' he says, 'that doesn't know his place?' he says. "I'm masther iv
this house,' says th' ghost. 'Not on ye'er life,' says Flaherty. 'Get
out iv here, or I'll make th' ghost iv a ghost out iv ye. I can lick
anny dead man that iver lived,' he said.
"With that th' ghost iv O'Grady made a pass at him, an' they clinched
an' rowled on th' flure. Now a ghost is no aisy mark f'r anny man, an'
O'Grady's ghost was as sthrong as a cow. It had Flaherty down on th'
flure an' was feedin' him with a book they call th' 'Christyan
Martyrs,' whin Mrs. O'Grady put a bottle in Flaherty's hands. 'What's
this?' says Flaherty. 'Howly wather,' says Mrs. O'Grady. 'Sprinkle it
on him,' says Mrs. O'Grady. 'Woman,' says th' tailor between th'
chapter iv th' book, 'this is no time f'r miracles,' he says. An' he
give O'Grady's ghost a treminjous wallop on th' head. Now, whether it
was th' wather or th' wallop, I'll not tell ye; but, annyhow, th'
ghost give wan yell an' disappeared. An' th' very next Sundah, whin
Father Kelly wint into th' pulpit at th' gospel, he read th' names iv
Roger Kickham Flaherty an' Mary Ann O'Grady."
"Did the ghost ever come back?" asked Mr. McKenna.
"Niver," said Mr. Dooley. "Wanst was enough. But, mind ye, I'd hate to
have been wan iv th' other ghosts th' night O'Grady got home fr'm th'
visit to O'Flaherty's. There might be ghosts that cud stand him off
with th' gloves, but in a round an' tumble fight he cud lick a St.
Patrick's Day procession iv thim."
THE SOFT SPOT.
"Anny more cyclone news?" Mr. Dooley asked Mr. McKenna, as he came in
with a copy of an extra paper in his hand.
"Nothing much," Mr. McKenna responded. "This paper says the angel of
death has give up riding on the whirlwind."
"Tis betther so," said Mr. Dooley: "a bicycle is more satisfactory f'r
a steady thing. But, faith, 'tis no jokin' matter. May th' Lord
forgive me f'r makin' light iv it! Jawn, whin I read about thim poor
people down in St. Looey, sthruck be th' wrath iv Hivin' without more
warnin' thin a man gets in a Polock church fight an' swept to their
graves be th' hundherds, me heart ached in me.
"But they'se always some compinsation in th' likes iv this. To see th'
wurruld as it r-runs along in its ordinrey coorse, with ivry man
seemin' to be lookin' f'r th' best iv it an' carryin' a little hammer
f'r his fellow-suff'rers, ye'd think what Hinnissy calls th' springs
iv human sympathy was as dhry in th' breast as a bricklayer's boot in
a box iv mortar. But let annything happen like this, an' men ye'd
suspect iv goin' round with a cold chisel liftin' name-plates off iv
coffins comes to th' front with their lips full iv comfort an'
kindliness an', what's more to th' point, their hands full iv coin.
"Years ago there used to be a man be th' name iv O'Brien--no relation
iv th' sinitor--lived down be th' dumps. He was well off, an' had quit
wur-rkin' f'r a living. Well, whether he'd been disappointed in love
or just naturally had a kick up to him again th' wurruld I niver knew;
but this here ol' la-ad put in his time from morn till night handin'
out contimpt an' hathred to all mankind. No wan was harder to rent
fr'm. He had some houses near Halsted Sthreet, an' I've see him
servin' five days' notices on his tenants whin' th' weather was that
cold ye cudden't see th' inside iv th' furnace-rooms at th' mill f'r
th' frost on th' window. Of all th' landlords on earth, th' Lord
deliver me fr'm an' Irish wan. Whether 'tis that fr'm niver holdin'
anny land in th' ol' counthry they put too high a fondness on their
places whin they get a lot or two over here, I don't know; but they're
quicker with th' constable thin anny others. I've seen men, that 'd
divide their last cint with ye pay night, as hard, whin it come to
gather in th' rent f'r two rooms in th' rear, as if they was an Irish
peer's agents; an' O'Brien had no such start iv binivolence to go on.
He niver seemed to pass th' poor-box in church without wantin' to
break into it. He charged cint per cint whin Casey, th' plumber,
buried his wife an' borrid money f'r th' funeral expenses. I see him
wanst chasin' th' agent iv th' Saint Vincent de Pauls down th' road
f'r darin' to ask him f'r a contribution. To look at his har-rsh red
face, as he sat at his window markin' up his accounts, ye'd know he
was hard in th' bit an' heavy in th' hand. An' so he was,--as hard an'
heavy as anny man I iver seen in all me born days.
"Well, Peter O'Brien had lived on long enough to have th' pious curses
iv th' entire parish, whin th' fire broke out, th' second fire iv
sivinty-four, whin th' damage was tin or twinty millions iv dollars
an' I lost a bull terrier be th' name iv Robert Immitt, r-runnin'
afther th' ingines. O'Brien disappeared fr'm th' r-road durin' th'
fire,--he had some property on th' South Side,--an' wasn't seen or
heerd tell iv f'r a day. Th' nex' mornin' th' rayport come in that he
was seen walkin' over th' red bridge with a baby in his arms. 'Glory
be!' says I: 'is th' man goin' to add canniballing to his other
crimes?' Sure enough, as I sthud in th' dureway, along come O'Brien,
with his hands scalded, his eyebrows gone, an' most iv his clothes
tore fr'm his back, but silent an' grim as iver, with a mite iv a girl
held tight to his breast, an' her fast asleep.
"He had a house back iv my place,--he ownded th' fifty feet frontin'
on Grove Sthreet, bought it fr'm a man named Grogan,--an' 'twas
rinted be a widdy lady be th' name iv Sullivan, wife iv a bricklayer
iv th' same name. He was sthridin' into th' Widow Sullivan's house;
an' says he, 'Mistress Sullivan,' he says. 'Yes,' says she, in a
thremble, knottin' her apron in her hands an' standin' in front iv her
own little wans, 'what can I do f'r ye?' she says. 'Th' rent's not due
till to-morrow.' 'I very well know that,' he says; 'an' I want ye to
take care iv this wan', he says. 'An' I'll pay ye f'r ye'er throuble,'
he says.
"We niver knew where he got th' child: he niver told annywan. Docthor
Casey said he was badly burnt about th' head an' hands. He testified
to it in a suit he brought again O'Brien f'r curin' him. F'r th' man
O'Brien, instead iv rayformin' like they do in th' play, was a long
sight meaner afther he done this wan thing thin iver befure. If he was
tight-fisted wanst, he was as close now as calcimine on a
rough-finished wall. He put his tinints out in th' cold without mercy,
he kicked blind beggars fr'm th' dure, an' on his dyin'-bed he come as
near bein' left be raison iv his thryin' to bargain with th' good man
f'r th' rayqueems as annywan ye iver see. But he raised th' little
girl; an' I sometimes think that, whin they count up th' cash, they'll
let O'Brien off with a character f'r that wan thing, though there's
some pretty hard tabs again him.
"They ain't much point in what I've told ye more thin this,--that
beneath ivry man's outside coat there lies some good feelin'. We ain't
as bad as we make ourselves out. We've been stringin' ropes across th'
sthreet f'r th' people iv Saint Looey f'r thirty years an' handin'
thim bricks fr'm th' chimbleys whiniver we got a chance, but we've
on'y got wurruds an' loose change f'r thim whin th' hard times comes."
"Yes," said Mr. McKenna, "I see even the aldhermen has come to the
front, offering relief."
"Well," said Mr. Dooley, thoughtfully, "I on'y hope they won't go to
Saint Looey to disthri-bute it thimsilves. That would be a long sight
worse thin th' cyclone."
THE IRISHMAN ABROAD.
Mr. Dooley laid down his morning paper, and looked thoughtfully at the
chandeliers.
"Taaffe," he said musingly,--"Taaffe--where th' divvle? Th' name's
familiar."
"He lives in the Nineteenth," said Mr. McKenna. "If I remember right,
he has a boy on th' force."
"Goowan," said Mr. Dooley, "with ye'er nineteenth wa-ards. Th' Taaffe
I mane is in Austhria. Where in all, where in all? No: yes, by gar, I
have it. A-ha!
"But cur-rsed be th' day,
Whin Lord Taaffe grew faint-hearted
An sthud not n'r cha-arged,
But in panic depa-arted."
"D'ye mind it,--th' pome by Joyce? No, not Bill Joyce. Joyce, th' Irish
pote that wrote th' pome about th' wa-ars whin me people raysisted
Cromwell, while yours was carryin' turf on their backs to make fires
for th' crool invader, as Finerty says whin th' sub-scriptions r-runs
low. 'Tis th' same name, a good ol' Meath name in th' days gone by;
an' be th' same token I have in me head that this here Count Taaffe,
whether he's an austrich or a canary bur-rd now, is wan iv th' ol'
fam'ly. There's manny iv thim in Europe an' all th' wurruld beside.
There was Pat McMahon, th' Frinchman, that bate Looey Napoleon; an'
O'Donnell, the Spanish juke; an' O'Dhriscoll an' Lynch, who do be th'
whole thing down be South America, not to mention Patsy Bolivar. Ye
can't go annywhere fr'm Sweden to Boolgahria without findin' a Turk
settin' up beside th' king an' dalin' out th' deek with his own hand.
Jawn, our people makes poor Irishmen, but good Dutchmen; an', th' more
I see iv thim, th' more I says to mesilf that th' rale boney fide
Irishman is no more thin a foreigner born away from home. 'Tis so.
"Look at thim, Jawn," continued Mr. Dooley, becoming eloquent. "Whin
there's battles to be won, who do they sind for? McMahon or Shurdan or
Phil Kearney or Colonel Colby. Whin there's books to be wrote, who
writes thim but Char-les Lever or Oliver Goldsmith or Willum Carleton?
Whin there's speeches to be made, who makes thim but Edmund Burke or
Macchew P. Brady? There's not a land on th' face iv th' wurruld but
th' wan where an Irishman doesn't stand with his fellow-man, or above
thim. Whin th' King iv Siam wants a plisint evenin', who does he sind
f'r but a lively Kerry man that can sing a song or play a good hand at
spile-five? Whin th' Sultan iv Boolgahria takes tea, 'tis tin to wan
th' man across fr'm him is more to home in a caubeen thin in a turban.
There's Mac's an' O's in ivry capital iv Europe atin' off silver
plates whin their relations is staggerin' under th' creels iv turf in
th' Connaught bogs.
"Wirra, 'tis hard. Ye'd sa-ay off hand, 'Why don't they do as much for
their own counthry?' Light-spoken are thim that suggests th' like iv
that. 'Tis asier said than done. Ye can't grow flowers in a granite
block, Jawn dear, much less whin th' first shoot 'd be thrampled under
foot without pity. 'Tis aisy f'r us over here, with our bellies full,
to talk iv th' cowardice iv th' Irish; but what would ye have wan man
iv thim do again a rig'mint? 'Tis little fightin' th' lad will want
that will have to be up before sunrise to keep th' smoke curlin' fr'm
th' chimbley or to patch th' rush roof to keep out th' March rain. No,
faith, Jawn, there's no soil in Ireland f'r th' greatness iv th' race;
an' there has been none since th' wild geese wint across th' say to
France, hangin' like flies to th' side iv th' Fr-rinch ship. 'Tis only
f'r women an' childher now, an' thim that can't get away. Will th'
good days ever come again? says ye. Who knows!"
THE SERENADE.
"By dad, if it wasn't f'r that there Molly Donahue," said Mr. Dooley
to Mr. McKenna, "half th' life 'd be gone out iv Bridgeport." "What
has Molly Donahue been doin'?" asked Mr. McKenna.
"She have been causin' Felix Pindergasht to be sint to th' Sisters iv
Mercy Hospital with inflammathry rhoomatism. Ye know Felix. He is a
musical janius. Before he was tin year old he had me mind disthracted
be playin' wan iv thim little mouth organs on th' corner near me
bedroom window. Thin he larned to play th' ack-car-jeen, an' cud swing
it between his legs an' give an imitation iv th' cathedral bell that
'd make ye dig in ye'er pocket to see iv ye had a dime f'r a seat.
Thin he used to sit in his window in his shirt-sleeves, blowin' 'Th'
Vale iv Avoca' on a cornet. He was wan whole month before he cud get
th' 'shall fade fr'm me heart' right. Half th' neighborhood 'd be out
on th' sidewalk yellin' 'Lift it, Felix,--lift an' scatther it. Shall
fade fr'm me ha-a-rt,--lift it, ye clumsy piper.'
"A few months back th' stupid gawk begun to be attintive to Molly
Donahue, an', like th' wild wan she is, she dhrew him on. Did ye iver
see th' wan that wudden't? Faith, they're all alike. If it ain't a
sthraight stick, it's a crooked wan; an' th' man was niver yet born,
if he had a hump on his back as big as coal-scuttle an' had a face
like th' back iv a hack, that cudden't get th' wink iv th' eye fr'm
some woman. They're all alike, all alike. Not that I've annything
again thim: 'tis thim that divides our sorrows an' doubles our joys,
an' sews chiny buttons on our pa-ants an' mends our shirts with blue
yarn. But they'll lead a man to desthruction an' back again, thim same
women.
"Well, Felix had no luck coortin' Molly Donahue. Wan night she wasn't
in; an' th' nex' night ol' man Donahue come to th' dure, an' says, 'Ye
can put in th' coal at th' back dure,' he says, an' near broke th'
la-ad's heart. Las' week he pulled himself together, an' wint up th'
r-road again. He took his cornet with him in a green bag; an', whin he
got in front iv Donahue's house, he outs with th' horn, an' begins to
play. Well, sir, at th' first note half th' block was in th' sthreet.
Women come fr'm their houses, with their shawls on their heads; an'
all th' forty-fives games was broke up be raison iv th' la-ads lavin'
f'r to hear the music. Befure Felix had got fairly started f'r to
serrynade Molly Donahue, th' crowd was big an' boistherous. He started
on th' ol' favor-ite, 'Th' Vale iv Avoca'; an' near ivry man in th'
crowd had heerd him practisin' it. He wint along splendid till he come
to 'shall fade fr'm me heart,' an' thin he broke, 'Thry again,' says
th' crowd; an' he stharted over. He done no betther on th' second
whirl. 'Niver say die, Felix,' says th' crowd. "Go afther it. We're
all with ye.' At that th' poor, deluded loon tackled it again; an' th'
crowd yells: 'Hist it up. There ye go. No, be hivins he fell at th'
last jump.' An', by dad, though he thried f'r half an hour, he cud not
land th' 'shall fade fr'm me heart.' At th' last break th' light in
Molly Donahue's window wint out, an' th' crowd dispersed. Felix was
discons'late. 'I had it right befure I come up,' he says, 'but I
missed me holt whin th' crowd come. Me heart's broke,' he says. 'Th'
cornet's not ye'er insthrument,' says Dorsey. 'Ye shud thry to play
th' base dhrum. It's asier.'"
"Is that all that's going on?" asked Mr. McKenna.
"That an' th' death iv wan iv Hinnissy's goats,--Marguerite. No, no,
not that wan. That's Odalia. Th' wan with th' brown spots. That's her.
She thried to ate wan iv thim new theayter posthers, an' perished in
great ag'ny. They say th' corpse turned red at th' wake, but ye can't
believe all ye hear."
THE HAY FLEET.
Mr. Dooley had been reading about General Shafter's unfortunately
abandoned enterprise for capturing Santiago by means of a load of hay,
and it filled him with great enthusiasm. Laying down his paper, he
said: "By dad, I always said they give me frind Shafter th' worst iv
it. If they'd left him do th' job th' way he wanted to do it, he'd
've taken Sandago without losin' an ounce."
"How was it he wanted to do it?" Mr. Hennessy asked.
"Well," said Mr. Dooley, "'twas this way. This is th' way it was. Ol'
Cervera's fleet was in th' harbor an' bottled up, as th' man says.
Shafter he says to Sampson: 'Look here, me bucko, what th' divvle
ar-re ye loafin' ar-round out there f'r,' he says, 'like a dep'ty
sheriff at a prize fight?' he says. 'Why don't ye go in, an' smash th'
Castiles?' he says. 'I'm doin' well where I am,' says Sampson. 'Th'
navy iv th' United States,' he says, 'which is wan iv th' best, if not
th' best, in th' wurruld,' he says, 'was not,' he says, 'intinded f'r
sthreet fightin',' he says. 'We'll stay here,' he says, 'where we
ar-re,' he says, 'until,' he says, 'we can equip th' ships with
noomatic tire wheels,' he says, 'an' ball bearin's,' he says.
"'Well,' says Shafter, 'if ye won't go in,' he says, 'we'll show ye
th' way,' he says. An' he calls on Cap Brice, that was wan iv th'
youngest an' tastiest dhressers in th' whole crool an' devastatin'
war. 'Cap,' he says, 'is they anny hay in th' camp?' he says.
'Slathers iv it,' says th' cap. 'Onless,' he says, 'th' sojers et it,'
he says. 'Th' las' load iv beef that come down fr'm th' undhertakers,'
he says, 'was not good,' he says. 'Ayether,' he says, ''twas
improperly waked,' he says, 'or,' he says, 'th' pall-bearers was
careless,' he says. 'Annyhow,' he says, 'th' sojers won't eat it; an',
whin I left, they was lookin' greedily at th' hay,' he says. 'Cap,'
says Gin'ral Shafter, 'if anny man ates a wisp, shoot him on th'
spot,' he says. 'Those hungry sojers may desthroy me hopes iv
victhry,' he says. 'What d'ye mane?' says Cap Brice. 'I mane this,'
says Gin'ral Shafter. 'I mane to take yon fortress,' he says. 'I'll
sind ye in, Cap,' he says, 'in a ship protected be hay,' he says. 'Her
turrets 'll be alfalfa, she'll have three inches iv solid timithy to
th' water line, an' wan inch iv th' best clover below th' wather
line,' he says. 'Did ye iver see an eight-inch shell pinithrate a bale
iv hay?' he says. 'I niver did,' says Cap Brice. 'Maybe that was
because I niver see it thried,' he says. 'Be that as it may,' says
Gin'ral Shafter, 'ye niver see it done. No more did I,' he says.
'Onless,' he says, 'they shoot pitchforks,' he says, 'they'll niver
hur-rt ye,' he says. 'Ye'll be onvincible,' he says. 'Ye'll pro-ceed
into th' harbor,' he says, 'behind th' sturdy armor iv projuce,' he
says. 'Let ye'er watchword be "Stay on th' far-rm," an' go on to
victhry,' he says. 'Gin'ral,' says Cap Brice, 'how can I thank ye f'r
th' honor?' he says. ''Tis no wondher th' men call ye their fodder,'
he says. 'Twas a joke Cap Brice med at th' time. 'I'll do th' best I
can,' he says; 'an', if I die in th' attempt,' he says, 'bury me where
the bran-mash 'll wave over me grave,' he says.
"An' Gin'ral Shafter he got together his fleet, an' put th' armor on
it. 'Twas a formidable sight. They was th' cruiser 'Box Stall,' full
armored with sixty-eight bales iv th' finest grade iv chopped feed;
th' 'R-red Barn,' a modhern hay battleship, protected be a whole mow
iv timothy; an' th' gallant little 'Haycock,' a torpedo boat shootin'
deadly missiles iv explosive oats. Th' expedition was delayed be wan
iv th' mules sthrollin' down to th' shore an' atin' up th' afther
batthry an' par-rt iv th' ram iv th' 'R-red Barn' an', befure repairs
was made, Admiral Cervera heerd iv what was goin' on. 'Glory be to the
saints,' he says, 'what an injaynious thribe these Yankees is!' says
he. 'On'y a few weeks ago they thried to desthroy me be dumpin' a load
iv coal on me,' he says; 'an' now,' he says, 'they're goin' to
smother me in feed,' he says. 'They'll be rollin' bar'ls iv flour on
me fr'm th' heights next,' he says. 'I'd betther get out,' he says.
''Tis far nobler,' he says, 'to purrish on th' ragin' main,' he says,
'thin to die with ye'er lungs full iv hayseed an' ye'er eyes full iv
dust,' he says. 'I was born in a large city,' he says; 'an' I don't
know th' rules iv th' barn,' he says. An' he wint out, an' took his
lickin'.
"'Twas too bad Shafter didn't get a chanst at him, but he's give th'
tip to th' la-ads that makes th' boats. No more ixpinsive steel an'
ir'n, but good ol' grass fr'm th' twinty-acre meadow. Th' ship-yards
'll be moved fr'm th' say, an' laid down in th' neighborhood iv Polo,
Illinye, an' all th' Mississippi Valley 'll ring with th' sound iv th'
scythe an' th' pitchfork buildin' th' definse iv our counthry's honor.
Thank th' Lord, we've winrows an' winrows iv Shafter's armor plate
between here an' Dubuque."
Mr. Hennessy said good-night. "As me cousin used to say," he remarked,
"we're through with wan hell iv a bad year, an' here goes f'r another
like it."
"Well," said Mr. Dooley, "may th' Lord niver sind us a foolisher wan
than this!"
THE PERFORMANCES OF LIEUTENANT HOBSON.
"If I'd been down to th' Audjitooroom th' other night," said Mr.
Hennessy, "an' had a chunk iv coal fr'm th' sunk 'Merrimac,' I'd iv
handed it to that man Loot Hobson. I wud so. Th' idee iv a hero
standin' up befure thousan's iv men with fam'lies an' bein' assaulted
be ondacint females. It med me blush down to th' soles iv me feet. If
they let this thing go on, be hivins, why do they stop th'
hootchy-kootchy?"