“We cast twinty-wan hundherd votes f’r Duggan, an’ they was on’y five hundherd votes in th’ precinct.  We’d cast more, but th’ tickets give out.  They was tin votes in th’ box f’r Schwartzmeister whin we counted up; an’ I felt that mortified I near died, me bein’ precinct captain, an’ res-sponsible.  ’What ‘ll we do with thim?  Out th’ window,’ says I. Just thin Dorsey’s nanny-goat that died next year put her head through th’ dure.  ‘Monica,’ says Dorsey (he had pretty names for all his goats), ‘Monica, are ye hungry,’ he says, ‘ye poor dear?’ Th’ goat give him a pleadin’ look out iv her big brown eyes.  ’Can’t I make ye up a nice supper?’ says Dorsey.  ‘Do ye like paper?’ he says.  ’Would ye like to help desthroy a Dutchman,’ he says, ‘an’ perform a sarvice f’r ye’er counthry?’ he says.  Thin he wint out in th’ next room, an’ come back with a bottle iv catsup; an’ he poured it on th’ Schwartzmeister ballots, an’ Monica et thim without winkin’.

“Well, sir, we ilicted Duggan; an’ what come iv it?  Th’ week before iliction he was in me house ivry night, an’ ’twas ’Misther Dooley, this,’ an’ ‘Mr. Dooley, that,’ an’ ’What ‘ll ye have, boys?’ an’ ‘Niver mind about th’ change.’  I niver see hide nor hair iv him f’r a week afther iliction.  Thin he come with a plug hat on, an’ says he:  ‘Dooley,’ he says, ‘give me a shell iv beer,’ he says:  ’give me a shell iv beer,’ he says, layin’ down a nickel.  ‘I suppose ye’re on th’ sub-scription,’ he says.  ‘What for?’ says I.  ’F’r to buy me a goold star,’ says he.  With that I eyes him, an’ says I:  ‘Duggan,’ I says, ‘I knowed ye whin ye didn’t have a coat to ye’er back,’ I says, ‘an’ I ‘ll buy no star f’r ye,’ I says.  ’But I’ll tell ye what I’ll buy f’r ye,’ I says.  ‘I’ll buy rayqueem masses f’r th’ raypose iv ye’er sowl, if ye don’t duck out iv this in a minyit,’ Whin I seen him last, he was back dhrivin’ a dhray an’ atin’ his dinner out iv a tin can.”

THE SKIRTS OF CHANCE.

The people of Bridgeport are not solicitous of modern improvements, and Mr. Dooley views with distaste the new and garish.  But he consented to install a nickel-in-the-slot machine in his tavern last week, and it was standing on a table when Mr. McKenna came in.  It was a machine that looked like a house; and, when you put a nickel in at the top of it, either the door opened and released three other nickels or it did not.  Mostly it did not.

Mr. Dooley saluted Mr. McKenna with unusual cordiality, and Mr. McKenna inspected the nickel-in-the-slot machine with affectation of much curiosity.

“What’s this you have here, at all?” said Mr. McKenna.

“‘Tis an aisy way iv gettin’ rich,” said Mr. Dooley.  “All ye have to do is to dhrop a nickel in th’ slot, an’ three other nickels come out at th’ dure.  Ye can play it all afthernoon, an’ take a fortune fr’m it if ye’er nickels hould out.”

“And where do th’ nickels come fr’m?” asked Mr. McKenna.