“I wondher,” said Mr. Dooley, “what me Dutch frind Oom Paul'll think
whin he hears that Willum Waldorf Asthor has given four thousan' pounds
or twinty thousan' iv our money as a conthribution to th' British
governmint?”
“Who's Willum Waldorf Asthor?” Mr. Hennessy asked. “I niver heerd iv
him.”
“Ye wudden't,” said Mr. Dooley. “He don't thravel in ye'er set. Willum
Waldorf Asthor is a gintleman that wanst committed th' sin iv bein'
bor-rn in this counthry. Ye know what orig-inal sin is, Hinnissy. Ye was
bor-rn with wan an' I was bor-rn with wan an' ivrybody was bor-rn with
wan. 'Twas took out iv me be Father Tuomy with holy wather first an'
be me father aftherward with a sthrap. But I niver cud find out what it
was. Th' sins I've committed since, I'm sure iv. They're painted red an'
carry a bell an' whin I'm awake in bed they stan' out on th' wall like
th' ilicthric signs they have down be State sthreet in front iv th'
clothin' stores. But I'll go to th' grave without knowin' exactly what
th' black orig-inal sin was I committed. All I know is I done wrong.
But with Willum Waldorf Asthor 'tis dif'rent. I say 'tis diff'rent with
Willum Waldorf Asthor. His orig-inal sin was bein' bor-rn in New York.
He cudden't do anything about it. Nawthin' in this counthry wud wipe
it out. He built a hotel intinded f'r jooks who had no sins but thim
iv their own makin', but even th' sight iv their haughty bills cud not
efface th' stain. He thried to live down his crime without success an'
he thried to live down to it be runnin' f'r congress, but it was no go.
No matther where he wint among his counthrymen in England some wan wud
find out he was bor-rn in New York an' th' man that ownded th' house
where he was spindin' th' night wud ast him if he was a cannibal an' had
he anny Indyan blood in his veins. 'Twas like seein' a fine lookin'
man with an intel-lecjal forehead an' handsome, dar-rk brown eyes an'
admirin' him, an' thin larnin' his name is Mudd J. Higgins. His accint
was proper an' his clothes didn't fit him right, but he was not bor-rn
in th' home iv his dayscindants, an' whin he walked th' sthreets iv
London he knew ivry polisman was sayin': 'There goes a man that pretinds
to be happy, but a dark sorrow is gnawin' at his bosom. He looks as if
he was at home, but he was bor-rn in New York, Gawd help him.”
{Illustration}
“So this poor way-worn sowl, afther thryin' ivry other rimidy fr'm
dhrivin' a coach to failin' to vote, at las' sought out th' rile high
clark iv th' coort an' says he: 'Behold,' he says, 'an onhappy man,' he
says. 'With millyons in me pocket, two hotels an' onlimited credit, 'he
says, 'me hear-rt is gray,' he says. 'Poor sowl,' says th' clark iv th'
coort, 'What's ailin' ye'?' he says. 'Have ye committed some gr-reat
crime?' he says. 'Partly,' says Willum Waldorf Asthor. 'It was partly
me an' partly me folks,' he says. 'I was,' he says, in a voice broken be
tears, 'I was,' he says, 'bor-rn in New York,' he says. Th' clark made
th' sign iv th' cross an' says he: 'Ye shudden't have come here,' he
says. 'Poor afflicted wretch,' he says, 'ye need a clargyman,' he
says. 'Why did ye seek me out?' he says. 'Because,' says Willum Waldorf
Asthor, 'I wish,' he says, 'f'r to renounce me sinful life,' he says. 'I
wish to be bor-rn anew,' he says. An' th' clark bein' a kind man helps
him out. An' Willum Waldorf Asthor renounced fealty to all foreign
sovereigns, princes an' potentates an' especially Mack th' Wanst, or
Twict, iv th' United States an' Sulu an' all his wur-ruks an' he come
out iv th' coort with his hat cocked over his eye, with a step jaunty
and high, afther years iv servile freedom a bondman at last!
“So he's a citizen iv Gr-reat Britain now an' a lile subject iv th'
Queen like you was Hinnissy befure ye was r-run out.”
“I niver was,” said Mr. Hennessy. “Sure th' Queen iv England was
renounced f'r me long befure I did it f'r mesilf--to vote.”
“Well, niver mind,” Mr. Dooley continued, “he's a citizen iv England an'
he has a castle that's as big as a hotel, on'y nobody goes there excipt
thim that's ast, an' not all of those, an' he owns a newspaper an' th'
editor iv it's the Prince iv Wales an' th' rayporthers is all jooks an'
th' Archbishop iv Canterbury r-runs th' ilivator, an' slug wan in th'
printin' office is th' Impror iv Germany in disgeese. 'Tis a pa-per I'd
like to see. I'd like to know how th' Jook iv Marlbro'd do th' McGovern
fight. An' some day Willum Waldorf Asthor'll be able to wurruk f'r
his own pa-aper, f'r he's goin' to be a earl or a markess or a jook
or somethin' gran'. Ye can't be anny iv these things without money,
Hinnissy, an' he has slathers iv it.”
“Where does he get it?” demanded Mr. Hennessy.
“F'rm this counthry,” said Mr. Dooley.
“I shud think,” Mr. Hennessy protested stoutly, “if he's ashamed iv this
counthry he wudden't want to take money f'rm it.”
“That's where ye're wrong,” Mr. Dooley replied. “Take money annywhere
ye find it. I'd take money f'rm England, much as I despise that formerly
haughty but now dejected land, if I cud get anny from there. An' whin ye
come down to it, I dinnaw as I blame Willum Waldorf Asthor f'r shiftin'
his allegiance. Ivry wan to his taste as th' man said whin he dhrank out
iv th' fire extinguisher. It depinds on how ye feel. If ye ar-re a tired
la-ad an' wan without much fight in ye, livin' in this counthry is
like thryin' to read th' Lives iv the Saints at a meetin' iv th'
Clan-na-Gael. They'se no quiet f'r annybody. They's a fight on ivry
minyit iv th' time. Ye may say to ye'ersilf: 'I'll lave these la-ads
roll each other as much as they plaze, but I'll set here in th' shade
an' dhrink me milk punch, but ye can't do it. Some wan 'll say, 'Look at
that gazabo settin' out there alone. He's too proud f'r to jine in our
simple dimmycratic festivities. Lave us go over an' bate him on th'
eye.' An' they do it. Now if ye have fightin' blood in ye'er veins ye
hastily gulp down yeer dhrink an' hand ye'er assailant wan that does him
no kind iv good, an' th' first thing ye know ye're in th thick iv it an'
its scrap, scrap, scrap till th' undhertaker calls f'r to measure ye.
An' 'tis tin to wan they'se somethin' doin' at th' fun'ral that ye're
sorry ye missed. That's life in America. Tis a gloryous big fight, a
rough an' tumble fight, a Donnybrook fair three thousan' miles wide an'
a ruction in ivry block. Head an' ban's an' feet an' th' pitchers on th'
wall. No holds barred. Fight fair but don't f'rget th' other la-ad may
not know where th' belt line is. No polisman in sight. A man's down with
twinty on top iv him wan minyit. Th' next he's settin' on th' pile usin'
a base-ball bat on th' neighbor next below him. 'Come on, boys, f'r
'tis growin' late, an' no wan's been kilt yet. Glory be, but this is th'
life!'
“Now, if I'm tired I don't want to fight. A man bats me in th' eye an'
I call f'r th' polis. They isn't a polisman in sight. I say to th'
man that poked me: 'Sir, I fain wud sleep.' 'Get up,' he says, 'an' be
doin',' he says. 'Life is rale, life is earnest,' he says, 'an' man was
made to fight,' he says, fetchin' me a kick. An' if I'm tired I say,
'What's th' use? I've got plenty iv money in me inside pocket. I'll go
to a place where they don't know how to fight. I'll go where I can get
something but an argymint f'r me money an' where I won't have to rassle
with th' man that bates me carpets, ayether,' I says, 'f'r fifty cints
overcharge or good govermint,' I says. An' I pike off to what Hogan
calls th' effete monarchies iv Europe an' no wan walks on me toes, an'
ivry man I give a dollar to becomes an acrobat an' I live comfortably
an' die a markess! Th' divvle I do!
“That's what I was goin' to say,” Mr. Hennessy remarked. “Ye wudden't
live annywhere but here.”
“No,” said Mr. Dooley, “I wudden't. I'd rather be Dooley iv Chicago than
th' Earl iv Peltvule. It must be that I'm iv th' fightin' kind.”