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.”
“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,’
