salute,’ he says, ‘an’,’ he says, ‘f’rget,’ he says, ‘to take th’ see-gars out iv their mouths,’ he says.  ‘Ye desthroyed a lot iv coal, ye tell me,’ he says.  ‘Do ye,’ he says, ‘go downstairs now, an’ shovel up a ton or two iv it,’ he says.  ‘Afther which,’ he says, ‘ye can roll a kag iv beer into me bedroom,’ he says; ’f’r ‘tis dhry wurruk settin’ up here watchin’ ixpansion ixpand,’ he says.

“That’s what Cousin George ‘ll say to th’ Loot.  An’, whin th’ Loot comes back, he won’t be a hero anny more; an’, if anny woman thries to kiss him, he’ll climb a three.  Cousin George ’ll make a man iv him.  ’Tis kicks, not kisses, that makes men iv heroes.”

“Well, mebbe ye’re r-right,” said Mr. Hennessy.  “He’s nawthin’ but a kid, annyhow,—­no oldher thin me oldest boy; an’ I know what a fool he’d be if anny wan ast him to be more iv a fool thin he is.  Hobson ’ll be famous, no matther what foolish things he does.”

“I dinnaw,” said Mr. Dooley.  “It was headed f’r him; but I’m afraid, as th’ bull-yard players ’d say, fame’s been kissed off.”

THE DECLINE OF NATIONAL FEELING.

“What ar-re ye goin’ to do Patrick’s Day?” asked Mr. Hennessy.

“Patrick’s Day?” said Mr. Dooley.  “Patrick’s Day?  It seems to me I’ve heard th’ name befure.  Oh, ye mane th’ day th’ low Irish that hasn’t anny votes cillybrates th’ birth iv their naytional saint, who was a Fr-rinchman.”

“Ye know what I mane,” said Mr. Hennessy, with rising wrath.  “Don’t ye get gay with me now.”

“Well,” said Mr. Dooley, “I may cillybrate it an’ I may not.  I’m thinkin’ iv savin’ me enthusyasm f’r th’ queen’s birthday, whiniver it is that that blessid holiday comes ar-round.  Ye see, Hinnissy, Patrick’s Day is out iv fashion now.  A few years ago ye’d see the Prisident iv th’ United States marchin’ down Pinnsylvanya Avnoo, with the green scarf iv th’ Ancient Ordher on his shoulders an’ a shamrock in his hat.  Now what is Mack doin’?  He’s settin’ in his parlor, writin’ letthers to th’ queen, be hivins, askin’ afther her health.  He was fr’m th’ north iv Ireland two years ago, an’ not so far north ayether,—­just far enough north f’r to be on good terms with Derry an’ not far enough to be bad frinds with Limerick.  He was raised on butthermilk an’ haggis, an’ he dhrank his Irish nate with a dash iv orange bitthers in it.  He’s been movin’ steadily north since; an’, if he keeps on movin’, he’ll go r-round th’ globe, an’ bring up somewhere in th’ south iv England.

“An’ Hinnery Cabin Lodge!  I used to think that Hinnery would niver die contint till he’d took th’ Prince iv Wales be th’ hair iv th’ head,—­an’ ‘tis little th’ poor man’s got,—­an’ dhrag him fr’m th’ tower iv London to Kilmainham Jail, an’ hand him over to th’ tindher mercies, as Hogan says, iv Michael Davitt.  Thim was th’ days whin ye’d hear Hinnery in th’ Sinit, spreadin’ fear to th’ hear-rts iv th’ British aristocracy.  ‘Gintlemen,’