THEIR EXCELLENCIES, THE POLICE.

“Ye’ll be goin’ home early to-night, Jawn dear,” said Mr. Dooley to Mr. McKenna.

“And for why?” said that gentleman, tilting lazily back in the chair.

“Because gin’ral ordher number wan is out,” said Mr. Dooley, “directin’ th’ polis to stop ivry man catched out afther midnight an’ make thim give a satisfacthry account iv thimsilves or run thim off to jail.  Iv coorse, ye’ll be pinched, f’r ye won’t dare say where ye come fr’m; an’ ’tis twinty-eight to wan, the odds again an Orangeman at a wake, that ye’ll not know where ye’re goin’.”

“Tut, tut,” said Mr. McKenna, indifferently.

“Ye may tut-tut till ye lay an egg,” said Mr. Dooley, severely, “ye ol’ hen; but ‘tis so.  I read it in th’ pa-papers yesterdah afthernoon that Brinnan—­’tis queer how thim Germans all get to be polismen, they’re bright men, th’ Germans, I don’t think—­Brinnan says, says he, that th’ city do be overrun with burglars an’ highwaymen, so he ordhers th’ polis to stick up ivry pedesthreen they meet afther closin’ time.  ‘Tis good for him he named th’ hour, f’r ’tis few pedesthreens save an’ except th’ little kids with panneckers that most iv th’ polis meet befure midnight.  Look at there table, will ye?  ’An ax done it,’ says ye?  No, faith, but th’ fist iv a Kerry polisman they put on this here bate last week.  He done it ladin’ thrumps.  ’Thank Gawd,” says I, ‘ye didn’t have a good hand,’ I says, ’or I might have to call in th’ wreckin’ wagon.’  Thim Kerry men shud be made to play forty-fives with boxin’-gloves on.

“I read about th’ ordher, but it slipped me min’ las’ night.  I was down at a meetin’ iv th’ Hugh O’Neills, an’ a most intherestin’ meetin’ it was, Jawn.  I’d been niglictful iv me jooty to th’ cause iv late, an’ I was surprised an’ shocked to hear how poor ol’ Ireland was sufferin’.  Th’ rayport fr’m th’ Twinty-third Wa-ard, which is in th’ County Mayo, showed that th’ sthreet clanin’ conthract had been give to a Swede be th’ name iv Oleson; an’ over in th’ Nineteenth Wa-ard th’ County Watherford is all stirred up because Johnny Powers is filled th’ pipe-ya-ard with his own rilitives.  I felt dam lonely, an’ with raison, too; f’r I was th’ on’y man in th’ camp that didn’t have a job.  An’ says I, ‘Gintlemen,’ says I, ’can’t I do something f’r Ireland, too?’ I says.  ‘I’d make a gr-reat city threasurer,’ says I, ‘if ye’ve th’ job handy,’ I says; and at that they give me th’ laugh, and we tuk up a subscription an’ adjourned.

“Well, sir, I started up Ar-rchey Road afther th’ meetin’, forgettin’ about Brennan’s ordhers, whin a man jumps out fr’m behind a tree near th’ gas-house.  ‘Melia murther!’ says I to mesilf. ‘’Tis a highwayman!’ Thin, puttin’ on a darin’ front an’ reachin’ f’r me handkerchief, I says, ‘Stand back, robber!’ I says.  ‘Stand back, robber!’ I says.  ‘Stand back!’ I says.

“‘Excuse me,’ says th’ la-ad.  ‘I beg ye’er pardon,’ he says.