“Well, sir, will ye believe me, whin Dorgan wint over with th’ mimbers iv’ th’ union that night f’r to bur-rn something, there was me brave Hughey thrampin’ up an’ down like a polisman on bate.  Dorgan goes up an’ shakes his fist at him, an’ th’ la-ad gives him a jab with his bayonet that makes th’ poor ol’ man roar like a bull.  ‘In th’ name iv th’ people iv th’ State iv Illinys,’ he says, ‘disperse,’ he says, ’ye riter,’ he says; ‘an’, if ye don’t go home,’ he says, ‘ye ol’ omadhon,’ he says, ‘I’ll have ye thrun into jail,’ he says.

“Dorgan haven’t got over it yet.  It dhruv him to a sick-bed.”

BOYNE WATER AND BAD BLOOD.

“Jawn,” said Mr. Dooley to Mr. McKenna, “what did th’ Orangeys do to-day?”

“They had a procession,” said Mr. McKenna.

“Was it much, I dinnaw?”

“Not much.”

“That’s good,” said Mr. Dooley.  “That’s good.  They don’t seem to be gettin’ anny sthronger, praise be!  Divvle th’ sthraw do I care f’r thim.  They niver harmed hair nor head iv me; an’ they ain’t likely to, ayether, so long as th’ R-road keeps th’ way it is.  Faith, ’twud be a fine pot iv porridge th’ like iv thim ’d ate if they come up into Ar-rchey Road.  I’m an ol’ man, Jawn,—­though not so ol’ at that,—­but I’d give tin years iv me life to see an Orange procession west on Ar-rchey Road with th’ right flank restin’ on Halsthed Sthreet.  It ’d rest there.  Th’ Lord knows it wud.

“Jawn, I have no dislike to th’ Orangeys.  Nawthin’ again thim.  I’d not raise me hand to thim, I wud not, though me cousin Tim was kilt be wan iv thim dhroppin’ a bolt on his skull in th’ ship-yards in Belfast.  ’Twas lucky f’r that there Orangey he spoke first.  Me cousin Tim had a ship-ax in his hand that’d ’ve evened things up f’r at laste wan iv th’ poor pikemen that Sarsfield had along with him.  But I’ve nawthin’ again thim at that but th’ wan that kilt Tim.  I’d like to meet that lad in some quite place like th’ Clan-na-Gael picnic on th’ fifteenth iv August, some place where we’d have fair play.

“Jawn, live an’ let live is me motto.  On’y I say this here, that ’tis a black disgrace to Chicago f’r to let th’ likes iv thim thrapze about th’ sthreets with their cheap ol’ flags an’ ribbons.  Oh dear, oh dear, if Pathrick’s Day on’y come some year on’ th’ twelfth day iv July!  Where ’d they be, where ’d they be?

“D’ye know things is goin’ to th’ dogs in this town, Jawn, avick?  Sure they are, faith.  I mind th’ time well whin an Orangey ’d as lave go through hell in a celluloid suit as march in this here town on the twelfth iv July.  I raymimber wanst they was a man be th’ name iv Morgan Dempsey,—­a first cousin iv thim Dempseys that lives in Cologne Sthreet,—­an’ he was a Roscommon man, too, an’ wan iv th’ cutest divvles that iver breathed th’ breath iv life.