“This man Dewey--,” began Mr. Dooley.
“I thought he was ye'er cousin George,” Mr. Hennessy interrupted.
“I thought he was,” said Mr. Dooley, “but on lookin' closer at his
features an' r-readin' what th' pa-apers says about him, I am convinced
that I was wrong. Oh, he may be a sicond cousin iv me Aunt Judy. I'll
not say he ain't. There was a poor lot, all iv them. But I have no close
rilitives in this counthry. 'Tis a way I have of savin' a little money.
I'm like th' good an' gr-rateful American people. Th' further ye
stay away fr'm thim th' more they like ye. Sicond-cousin-iv-me
Aunt-Judy-George made a mistake comin' home, or if he did come home he
ought've invistigated his welcome and see that it wasn't mined. A man
cud stand up all day an' lave Packy Mountjoy whale away at him, but th'
affiction iv th' American people is always aimed thrue an' is invaryably
fatal.”
“Th' la-ad Dougherty was in to-day, an' he exprissed th' feelin's iv
this grateful raypublic. He says, says he, 'This fellow Dewey ain't what
I thought he was,' he says. 'I thought he was a good, broad, lib'ral
man, an' it turns out he's a cheap skate,' he says. 'We made too much
fuss over him,' he says. 'To think,' he says, 'iv him takin' th'
house we give him an' tur-rnin' it over to his wife,' he says. ''Tis
scand'lous,' he says. 'How much did ye con-thribute?' says I. 'I didn't
give annything,' he says 'The collector didn't come around, an' I'm glad
now I hung on to me coin,' he says. 'Well,' says I, 'I apprechate ye'er
feelin's,' I says. 'Ye agree with th' other subscribers,' I says. 'But
I've med up me mind not to lave annywan talk to me about Dewey,' I
says, 'unless,' I says, 'he subscribed th' maximum amount iv th'
subscription,' I says, 'thirty-eight cints,' I says. 'So I'll thank ye
to tip-toe out,' I says, 'befure I give ye a correct imitation iv Dewey
an' Mountjoy at th' battle of Manila,' I says. An' he wint away.”
“Th' throuble with Dewey is he was so long away he lost his
undherstanding iv th' thrue feelin' iv th' American people. George
r-read th' newspapers, an' he says to himself: 'Be hivins, they think
well iv what I done. I guess I'll put a shirt in me thrunk an' go home,
f'r 'tis hot out here, an' ivrybody'll be glad f'r to see me,' he says.
An' he come along, an' New York was r-ready f'r him. Th' business in
neckties had been poor that summer, an' they was necessity f'r pullin'
it together, an' they give George a welcome an' invited his admirers
fr'm th' counthry to come in an' buy something f'r th' little wans at
home. An' he r-rode up Fifth Avnoo between smilin' rows iv hotels an'
dhrug stores, an' tin-dollar boxes an' fifty-cint seats an' he says to
himsilf: 'Holy smoke, if Aggynaldoo cud on'y see me now.' An' he was
proud an' happy, an' he says: 'Raypublics ar-re not always ongrateful.'
An' they ain't. On'y whin they give ye much gratichood ye want to freeze
some iv it, or it won't keep.”
“'Tis unsafe f'r anny man alive to receive th' kind wurruds that ought
to be said on'y iv th' dead. As long as George was a lithograph iv
himsilf in a saloon window he was all r-right. Whin people saw he cud
set in a city hall hack without flowers growin' in it an' they cud look
at him without smoked glasses they begin to weaken in their devotion.
'Twud've been th' same, almost, if he'd married a Presbyteeryan an'
hadn't deeded his house to his wife. 'Dewey don't look much like a
hero,' says wan man. 'I shud say not,' says another. 'He looks like
annybody else.' 'He ain't a hero,' says another. 'Why, annybody cud've
done what he did. I got an eight-year-old boy, an' if he cudden't take a
baseball club an' go in an' bate that Spanish fleet into junk in twinty
minyits I'd call him Alger an' thrade him off f'r a bicycle,' he says.
'I guess that's r-right. They say he was a purty tough man befure he
left Wash'n'ton.' 'Sure he was. Why, so-an'-so-an'-so-an'-so.' 'Ye don't
tell me!' 'Is there annything in that story about his beatin' his poor
ol' aunt an' her iliven childher out iv four dollars?' 'I guess that's
straight. Ye can tell be th' looks iv him he's a mean man. I niver see
a man with squintin' eyes an' white hair that wudden't rob a church!'
'He's a cow'rd, too. Why, he r-run away at th' battle iv Manila.
Ivrybody knows it. I r-read what Joe What's-His-Name wrote--th' br-rave
corryspondint. He says this feller was sick at his stummick an' retired
befure th' Spanish fire. Why, what'd he have to fight but a lot iv ol'
row-boats? A good swimmer with sharp teeth cud've bit his way through
th' whole Spanish fleet. An' he r-run away. I tell ye, it makes me tired
to think iv th' way we abused th' Spanyards not long ago. Why, say,
they done a lot betther thin this fellow Dewey, with his forty or fifty
men-iv-war an' this gran' nation, miles away, standin' shoulder to
shoulder at his back. They niver tur-rned over their property to their
wives.' 'Yes,' says wan man, 'Dewey was a cow'rd. Let's go an' stone his
house.' 'No,' says the crowd, 'he might come out. Let's go down to th'
v'riety show an' hiss his pitcher in th' kinetoscope.' Well!'”
“Well what?” demanded Mr. Hennessy.
“Well,” Mr. Dooley continued, “I was on'y goin' to say, Hinnissy, that
in spite iv me hathred iv George as a man--a marrid man--an' me contimpt
f'r his qualities as a fighter, in spite iv th' chickens he has stole
an' the notes he has forged an' th' homes he has rooned, if he was
to come r-runnin' up Archey road, as he might, pursooed be ladies an'
gintlemen an' th' palajeem iv our liberties peltin him with rotten eggs
an' ol' cats, I'd open th' dure f'r him, an' whin he come in I'd put me
fut behind it an' I'd say to th' grateful people: 'Fellow-citizens,' I'd
say, 'lave us,' I'd say. 'They'se another hero down in Halstead Sthreet
that's been marrid. Go down an' shivaree him. An' you, me thrusted
collagues iv th' press, disperse to ye'er homes,' I'd say. 'Th' keyholes
is closed f'r th' night, I'd say. An' thin I'd bolt th' dure an' I'd
say, 'George, take off ye'er coat an' pull up to th' fire. Here's a
noggin' iv whisky near ye'er thumb an' a good seegar f'r ye to smoke.
I'm no hero-worshiper. I'm too old. But I know a man whin I see wan, an'
though we cudden't come out an' help ye whin th' subscription list wint
wild, be sure we think as much iv ye as we did whin ye'er name was first
mintioned be th' stanch an' faithful press. Set here, ol' la-ad, an'
warrum ye'er toes by th' fire. Set here an' r-rest fr'm th' gratichood
iv ye'er fellow-counthrymen, that, as Shakspere says, biteth like an
asp an' stingeth like an adder. R-rest here, as ye might r-rest at th'
hearth iv millyons iv people that cud give ye no house but their own!”
“I dinnaw about that,” said Mr. Hennessy. “I like Dewey, but I think he
oughtn't to've give away th' gift iv th' nation.”
“Well,” said Mr. Dooley, “if 'twas a crime f'r an American citizen to
have his property in his wife's name they'd be close quarthers in th'
pinitinchry.”