Did ye iver have to wipe ye’er most intimate frinds off ye’er clothes, whin ye wint home at night?  Where was he durin’ th’ war?’ he says.  ’He was dhrivin’ a grocery wagon f’r Philip Reidy,’ says I.  ‘An’ what’s he makin’ th’ roar about?’ says th’ little man.  ’He don’t want anny wan to get onto him,’ says I.

“O’Toole was gone be this time, an’ th’ little man laned over th’ bar.  ‘Now,’ says he, ’what d’ye think iv a gazabo that don’t want a monniment put over some wan?  Where is this here pole?  I think I’ll go out an’ take a look at it.  Where ‘d ye say th’ la-ad come fr’m?  Donaldson?  I was there.  There was a man in our mess—­a Wicklow man be th’ name iv Dwyer—­that had th’ best come-all-ye I iver heerd.  It wint like this,’ an’ he give it to me.”

THE TRAGEDY OF THE AGITATOR.

“Whin ye come up, did ye see Dorgan?” asked Mr. Dooley.

“Which Dorgan?” asked Mr. McKenna.

“Why, to be sure, Hugh O’Neill Dorgan, him that was sicrety iv Deerin’ Shtreet branch number wan hundred an’ eight iv th’ Ancient Ordher iv Scow Unloaders, him that has th’ red lambrequin on his throat, that married th’ second time to Dinnihy’s aunt an’ we give a shivaree to him.  Hivins on earth, don’t ye know him?”

“I don’t,” said Mr. McKenna; “and, if I know him, I haven’t seen him.”

“Thin ye missed a sight,” said Mr. Dooley.  “He’s ragin’ an’ tearin’.  He have been a great union man.  He’d sthrike on th’ moment’s provocation.  I seen him wanst, whin some scow unloaders sthruck in Lemont or some other distant place, put on his coat, lay down his shovel, an’ go out, be hivins, alone.  Well, his son goes an’ jines th’ Sivinth Rig’mint; an’, by gar, th’ ol’ man, not knowin’ about th’ army, he’s that proud that he sthruts up an’ down th’ sthreet with his thumb in th’ vest iv him an’ give his son a new shovel, for they was wurrukin’ together on th’ scow ‘Odelia Ann.’  Well, whin th’ sthrike come along, iv coorse th’ scow unloaders quits; an’ Dorgan an’ th’ la-ad goes out together, because they’re dhrawin’ good wages an’ th’ crick do be full iv men r-ready f’r to take their places.

“Well, Dorgan had th’ divvle’s own time paradin’ up an’ down an’ sindin’ out ordhers to sthrike to ivry man he knowed of till th’ la-ad comes over las’ Choosdah avenin’, dhressed in his rigimintals with a gun as long as a clothes-pole over his shoulder.  ‘Hughey,’ said th’ father, ‘you look very gran’ to-night,’ he says.  ’Whose fun’ral ar-re ye goin’ to at this hour?’ ‘None but thim I makes mesilf,’ says he.  ‘What d’ye mean?’ says th’ ol’ man.  ‘I’m goin’ over f’r to stand guard in th’ thracks,’ says th’ la-ad.  Well, with that th’ ol’ man leaps up.  ‘Polisman,’ he says.  ‘Polisman,’ he says.  ‘Copper,’ he says.  ’Twas on’y be Mrs. Dorgan comin’ in an’ quitein’ th’ ol’ man with a chair that hostilities was averted—­as th’ pa-apers says—­right there an’ thin.