“Well, sir,” said Mr. Hennessy, “to think iv th' audacity iv thim
Chinymen! It do bate all.”
“It do that,” said Mr. Dooley. “It bates th' wurruld. An' what's it
comin' to? You an' me looks at a Chinyman as though he wasn't good f'r
annything but washin' shirts, an' not very good at that. Tis wan iv th'
spoorts iv th' youth iv our gr-reat cities to rowl an impty beer keg
down th' steps iv a Chinee laundhry, an' if e'er a Chinyman come out
to resint it they'd take him be th' pigtail an' do th' joynt swing with
him. But th' Chinyman at home's a diff'rent la-ad. He's with his frinds
an' they're manny iv thim an' he's rowlin' th' beer kegs himsilf
an' Westhren Civilization is down in th' laundhry wondhrin' whin th'
police'll come along.”
“Th' Lord f'rgive f'r sayin' it, Hinnissy, but if I was a Chinyman,
which I will fight anny man f'r sayin,' an' was livin' at home, I'd tuck
me shirt into me pants, put me braid up in a net, an' go out an' take
a fall out iv th' in-vader if it cost me me life. Here am I, Hop Lung
Dooley, r-runnin' me little liquor store an' p'rhaps raisin' a family in
th' town iv Koochoo. I don't like foreigners there anny more thin I do
here. Along comes a bald-headed man with chin whiskers from Baraboo,
Wisconsin, an' says he: 'Benighted an' haythen Dooley,' says he, 'ye
have no God,' he says. 'I have,' says I. 'I have a lot iv thim,' says I.
'Ye ar-re an oncultivated an' foul crather,' he says. 'I have come six
thousan' miles f'r to hist ye fr'm th' mire iv ignorance an' irrellijon
in which ye live to th' lofty plane iv Baraboo,' he says. An' he sets
down on an aisy chair, an' his wife an' her friends come in an' they
inthrojooce Mrs. Dooley to th' modhren improvements iv th' corset an'
th' hat with th' blue bur-rd onto it, an' put shame into her because she
hasn't let her feet grow, while th' head mission'ry reads me a pome out
iv th' _Northwesthren Christyan Advocate_. 'Well,' says I, 'look here,
me good fellow,' I says. 'Me an' me people has occypied these here
primises f'r manny years,' I says, 'an' here we mean to stay,' I says.
'We're doin' th' best we can in th' matther iv gods,' says I. 'We have
thim cast at a first-rate foundhry,' I says, 'an' we sandpa-aper thim
ivry week,' says I. 'As f'r knowin' things,' I says, 'me people wrote
pomes with a markin' brush whin th' likes iv ye was r-runnin' ar-round
wearin' a short pelisse iv sheepskins an' batin' each other to death
with stone hammers,' says I. An' I'm f'r firin' him out, but bein' a
quite man I lave him stay.”
“Th' nex' day in comes a man with a suit iv clothes that looks like a
tablecloth in a section house, an' says he: 'Poor ignorant haythen,' he
says, 'what manner iv food d'ye ate?' he says. 'Rice,' says I, 'an' rats
is me fav'rite dish,' I says. 'Deluded wretch,' says he. 'I riprisint
Armour an' Company, an' I'm here to make ye change ye'er dite,' he says.
'Hinceforth ye'll ate th' canned roast beef iv merry ol' stock yards or
I'll have a file iv sojers in to fill ye full iv ondygistible lead,'
he says. An' afther him comes th' man with Aunt Miranda's Pan Cakes
an' Flaked Bran an' Ye'll-perish-if-ye-don't-eat-a-biscuit an' other
riprisintatives iv Westhern Civilization, an' I'm to be shot if I don't
take thim all.”
“Thin a la-ad runs down with a chain an' a small glass on three sticks
an' a gang iv section men that answers to th' name iv Casey, an'
pro-ceeds f'r to put down a railroad. 'What's this f'r?' says I. 'We
ar-re th' advance guard iv Westhren Civilization,' he says, 'an we're
goin' to give ye a railroad so ye can go swiftly to places that ye don't
want to see,' he says. 'A counthry that has no railroads is beneath
contimpt,' he says. 'Casey,' he says, 'sthretch th' chain acrost yon
graveyard,' he says. 'I aim f'r to put th' thrack just befure that large
tombstone marked Riquiescat in Pace, James H. Chung-a-lung,' he says.
'But,' says I, 'ye will disturb pah's bones,' says I, 'if ye go to
layin' ties,' I says. 'Ye'll be mixin' up me ol' man with th' Cassidy's
in th' nex' lot that,' I says, 'he niver spoke to save in anger in his
life,' I says. 'Ye're an ancestor worshiper, heathen,' says the la-ad,
an' he goes on to tamp th' mounds in th' cimitry an ballast th' thrack
with th' remains iv th' deceased. An' afther he's got through along
comes a Fr-rinchman, an' an Englishman, an' a Rooshan, an' a Dutchman,
an' says wan iv them: 'This is a comfortable lookin' saloon,' he says.
'I'll take th' bar, ye take th' ice-box an' th' r-rest iv th' fixtures.'
'What f'r?' says I. 'I've paid th' rent an' th' license,' says I. 'Niver
mind,' says he. 'We're th' riprisintatives iv Westhren Civilization,'
he says, 'an' 'tis th' business iv Westhren Civilization to cut up th'
belongings iv Easthren Civilization,' he says. 'Be off,' he says, 'or
I'll pull ye'er hair,' he says. 'Well,' says I, 'this thing has gone
far enough,' I says. 'I've heerd me good ol' cast-iron gods or josses
abused,' I says, 'an' I've been packed full iv canned goods, an' th'
Peking Lightnin' Express is r-runnin' sthraight through th' lot where
th' bones iv me ancesthors lies,' I says. 'I've shtud it all,' I says,
'but whin ye come here to bounce me off iv me own primises,' I says,
'I'll have to take th' leg iv th' chair to ye,' I says. An' we're to th'
flure.”
“That's th' way it stands in Chiny, Hinnissy, an' it looks to me as
though Westhren Civilization was in f'r a bump. I mind wanst whin a
dhrunk prize fighter come up th' r-road and wint to sleep on Slavin's
steps. Some iv th' good sthrong la-ads happened along an' they were near
bein' at blows over who shud have his watch an' who shud take his hat.
While they were debatin' he woke up an' begin cuttin' loose with hands
an' feet, an' whin he got through he made a collection iv th' things
they dhropped in escapin' an' marched ca'mly down th' sthreet. Mebbe
'twill tur-rn out so in Chiny, Hinnissy. I see be th' pa-apers that
they'se four hundherd millyons iv thim boys an' be hivins! 'twuddent
surprise me if whin they got through batin' us at home, they might say
to thimsilves: 'Well, here goes f'r a jaunt ar-roun' the wurruld.' Th'
time may come, Hinnissey, whin ye'll be squirtin' wather over Hop Lee's
shirt while a man named Chow Fung kicks down ye'er sign an' heaves rocks
through ye'er windy. The time may come, Hinnissy. Who knows?”
“End ye'er blather,” said Mr. Hennessy. “They won't be anny Chinymen
left whin Imp'ror Willum gets through.”
“Mebbe not,” says Mr. Dooley. “He's a sthrong man. But th' Chinymen have
been on earth a long time, an' I don't see how we can push so manny iv
thim off iv it. Annyhow, 'tis a good thing f'r us they ain't Christyans
an' haven't larned properly to sight a gun.”