“Not that I think it was right.  I suppose they ought to be left walk about, an’ I’m a fair man.  If th’ blackest iv thim wint by now, I’d not raise me hand”—­

“Hello,” says Mr. McKenna, “here goes Killen, the Armagh man.  They say he digs with his left foot.”

“Jawn,” said Mr. Dooley, eagerly, “if ye run up on th’ roof, ye’ll find th’ bricks loose in th’ top row iv th’ chimbley.  Ye might hand him a few.”

THE FREEDOM PICNIC.

“There’s wan thing about th’ Irish iv this town,” said Mr. Dooley.

“The police?” said Mr. McKenna.

“No,” said the philosopher.  “But they give picnics that does bate all.  Be hivins, if Ireland cud be freed be a picnic, it ’d not on’y be free to-day, but an impire, begorra, with Tim Haley, th’ Banthry man, evictin’ Lord Salisbury fr’m his houldin’.  ’Twud that.

“Jawn, th’ la-ads have got th’ thrick iv freein’ Ireland down to a sinsible basis.  In th’ ol’ days they wint over with dinnymite bumbs in their pockets, an’ ayether got their rowlers on thim in Cork an’ blew thimsilves up or was arristed in Queenstown f’r disordherly conduct.  ‘Twas a divvle iv a risky job to be a pathrite in thim days, an’ none but those that had no wan dipindint on thim cud affoord it.  But what was th’ use?  Ireland wint on bein’ th’ same opprissed green oil it had always been, an’ th’ on’y difference th’ rivolutions made was ye sa-aw new faces on th’ bridges an’ th’ Wolfe Tones passed another set iv resolutions.

“‘Tis different now.  Whin we wants to smash th’ Sassenach an’ restore th’ land iv th’ birth iv some iv us to her thrue place among th’ nations, we gives a picnic.  ‘Tis a dam sight asier thin goin’ over with a slug iv joynt powder an’ blowin’ up a polis station with no wan in it.  It costs less; an’, whin ’tis done, a man can lep aboord a sthreet ca-ar, an’ come to his family an’ sleep it off.

“I wint out last Choosdah, an’ I suppose I must ’ve freed as much as eight counties in Ireland.  All th’ la-ads was there.  Th’ first ma-an I see was Dorgan, the sanyor guarjeen in the Wolfe Tone Lithry Society.  He’s th’ la-ad that have made th’ Prince iv Wales thrimble in his moccasins.  I heerd him wanst makin’ a speech that near injooced me to take a bumb in me hand an’ blow up Westminsther Cathedral.  ‘A-re ye,’ he says, ‘men, or a-re ye slaves?’ he says.  ‘Will ye,’ he says, ’set idly by,’ he says, ‘while th’ Sassenach,’ he says, ‘has th’ counthry iv Immitt an’ O’Connell,’ he says, ‘an’ Jawn Im Smyth,’ he says, ‘undher his heel?’ he says.  ‘Arouse,’ he says, ‘slaves an’ despots!’ he says.  ‘Clear th’ way!’ he says.  ‘Cowards an’ thraitors!’ he says.  ‘Faugh-a-ballagh!’ he says.  He had th’ beer privilege at th’ picnic, Jawn.