THE RULING CLASS.

“I see be th’ pa-apers,” said Mr. Dooley, “that arnychy’s torch do be lifted, an’ what it means I dinnaw; but this here I know, Jawn, that all arnychists is inimies iv governmint, an’ all iv thim ought to be hung f’r th’ first offence an’ bathed f’r th’ second.  Who are they, annyhow, but foreigners, an’ what right have they to be holdin’ torchlight procissions in this land iv th’ free an’ home iv th’ brave?  Did ye iver see an American or an Irishman an arnychist?  No, an’ ye niver will.  Whin an Irishman thinks th’ way iv thim la-ads, he goes on th’ polis force an’ dhraws his eighty-three-thirty-three f’r throwin’ lodgin’-house bums into th’ pathrol wagon.  An’ there ye a-are.

“I niver knowed but th’ wan arnychist, an’ he was th’ divvle an’ all f’r slaughtherin’ th’ rich.  He was a Boolgahrian man that lived down be Cologne Sthreet, acrost th’ river; but he come over to Bridgeport whin he did have his skates on him, f’r th’ liftenant over there was again arnychists, an’ ’twas little our own Jawnny Shea cared f’r thim so long as they didn’t bother him.  Well, sir, this here man’s name was Owsky or something iv that sort, but I always called him Casey be way iv a joke.  He had whiskers on him like thim on a cokynut, an’ I heerd he swore an oath niver to get shaved till he killed a man that wore a stove-pipe hat.

“Be that as it may, Jawn, he was a most ferocious man.  Manny’s th’ time I’ve heerd him lecture to little Matt Doolan asleep like a log behind th’ stove.  What a-are we comin’ to?’ he’d say.  ’What a-are we comin’ to?’ D’ye mind, Jawn, that’s th’ way he always began.  ‘Th’ poor do be gettin’ richer,’ says he, ‘an’ th’ rich poorer,’ says he.  ‘Th’ governmint,’ says he, ‘is in th’ hands iv th’ monno-polists,’ he says, ‘an’ they’re crushin’ th’ life out iv th’ prolotoorios.’  A prolotoorio, Jawn, is th’ same thing as a hobo.  ‘Look at th’ Willum Haitch Vanderbilts,’ says he, ‘an’ th’ Gools an’ th’ Astors,’ says he, ‘an’ thin look at us,’ he says, ‘groun’ down,’ he says, ’till we cries f’r bread on th’ sthreet,’ he says; ‘an’ they give us a stone,’ he says.  ‘Dooley,’ he says, ‘fetch in a tub iv beer, an’ lave th’ collar off,’ he says.

“Doolan ‘d wake up with a start, an’ applaud at that.  He was a little tailor-man that wurruked in a panthry down town, an’ I seen him weep whin a dog was r-run over be a dhray.  Thin Casey ’d call on Doolan f’r to stand his ground an’ desthroy th’ polis,—­’th’ onions iv th’ monno-polists,’ he called thim,—­an’ Doolan ’d say, ‘Hear, hear,’ till I thrun thim both out.