“If a man come into this saloon--” Mr. Hennessy was saying.
“This ain't no saloon,” Mr. Dooley interrupted. “This is a resthrant.”
“A what?” Mr. Hennessy exclaimed.
“A resthrant,” said Mr. Dooley. “Ye don't know, Hinnissy, that liquor is
food. It is though. Food--an' dhrink. That's what a doctor says in the
pa-apers, an' another doctor wants th' gover'mint to sind tubs iv th'
stuff down to th' Ph'lipeens. He says 'tis almost issintial that people
shud dhrink in thim hot climates. Th' prespiration don't dhry on
thim afther a hard pursoot iv Aggynaldoo an' th' capture iv Gin'ral
Pantaloons de Garshy; they begin to think iv home an' mother sindin'
down th' lawn-sprinkler to be filled with bock, an' they go off
somewhere, an' not bein' able to dhry thimsilves with dhrink, they want
to die. Th' disease is called nostalgia or home-sickness, or thirst.”
“'What we want to do f'r our sojer boys in th' Ph'lipeens besides
killin' thim,' says th' ar-rmy surgeon, 'is make th' place more
homelike,' he says. 'Manny iv our heroes hasn't had th' deleeryum
thremens since we first planted th' stars an' sthripes,' he says, 'an'
th' bay'nits among th' people,' he says. 'I wud be in favor iv havin'
th' rigimints get their feet round wanst a week, at laste,' he says.
'Lave us,' he says, 'reform th' reg'lations,' he says, 'an' insthruct
our sojers to keep their powdher dhry an' their whistles wet,' he says.”
“Th' idee ought to take, Hinnissy, f'r th' other doctor la-ad has
discovered that liquor is food. 'A man,' says he, 'can live f'r months
on a little booze taken fr'm time to time,' he says 'They'se a gr-reat
dale iv nourishment in it,' he says. An' I believe him, f'r manny's
th' man I know that don't think iv eatin' whin he can get a dhrink. I
wondher if the time will iver come whin ye'll see a man sneakin' out iv
th' fam'ly enthrance iv a lunch-room hurridly bitin' a clove! People
may get so they'll carry a light dinner iv a pint iv rye down to their
wurruk, an' a man'll tell ye he niver takes more thin a bottle iv beer
f'r breakfast. Th' cook'll give way to th' bartinder and th' doctor 'll
ordher people f'r to ate on'y at meals. Ye'll r-read in th' pa-apers
that 'Anton Boozinski, while crazed with ham an' eggs thried to kill his
wife an' childher.' On Pathrick's day ye'll see th' Dr. Tanner Anti-Food
Fife an' Drum corpse out at th' head iv th' procession instead iv th'
Father Macchews, an' they'll be places where a man can be took whin he
gets th' monkeys fr'm immodhrate eatin'. Th' sojers 'll complain that
th' liquor was unfit to dhrink an' they'll be inquiries to find out
who sold embammin' flood to th' ar-rmy--Poor people 'll have simple
meals--p'raps a bucket iv beer an' a little crame de mint, an' ye'll
r-read in th' pa-apers about a family found starvin' on th' North side,
with nawthin' to sustain life but wan small bottle iv gin, while th'
head iv th' family, a man well known to the polis, spinds his wages in a
low doggery or bakeshop fuddlin' his brains with custars pie. Th' r-rich
'll inthrajoose novelties. P'raps they'll top off a fine dinner with a
little hasheesh or proosic acid. Th' time'll come whin ye'll see me in a
white cap fryin' a cocktail over a cooksthove, while a nigger hollers to
me: 'Dhraw a stack iv Scotch,' an' I holler back: 'On th' fire.' Ye will
not.”
{Illustration}
“That's what I thought,” said Mr. Hennessy.
“No,” said Mr. Dooley. “Whisky wudden't be so much iv a luxury if'twas
more iv a necissity. I don't believe 'tis a food, though whin me frind
Schwartzmeister makes a cocktail all it needs is a few noodles to look
like a biled dinner. No, whisky ain't food. I think betther iv it thin
that. I wudden't insult it be placin' it on th' same low plane as a
lobster salad. Father Kelly puts it r-right, and years go by without
him lookin' on it even at Hallowe'en. 'Whisky,' says he, 'is called the
divvle, because,' he says, ''tis wan iv the fallen angels,' he says. 'It
has its place,' he says, 'but its place is not in a man's head,' says
he. 'It ought to be th' reward iv action, not th' cause iv it,' he says.
'It's f'r th' end iv th' day, not th' beginnin',' he says. 'Hot whisky
is good f'r a cold heart, an' no whisky's good f'r a hot head,' he says.
'Th' minyit a man relies on it f'r a crutch he loses th' use iv his
legs. 'Tis a bad thing to stand on, a good thing to sleep on, a good
thing to talk on, a bad thing to think on. If it's in th' head in th'
mornin' it ought not to be in th' mouth at night. If it laughs in ye,
dhrink; if it weeps, swear off. It makes some men talk like good women,
an' some women talk like bad men. It is a livin' f'r orators an' th'
death iv bookkeepers. It doesn't sustain life, but, whin taken hot with
wather, a lump iv sugar, a piece iv lemon peel, and just th' dustin' iv
a nutmeg-grater, it makes life sustainable.”
“D'ye think ye-ersilf it sustains life?” asked Mr. Hennessy.
“It has sustained mine f'r many years,” said Mr. Dooley.