“‘Beg th’ pardon iv Hiven,’ says I, ‘f’r stoppin’ a desperate man in th’ sthreet,’ says I; ‘f’r in a holy minyit I’ll blow off th’ head iv ye,’ says I, with me hand on th’ handkerchief that niver blew nawthin’ but this nose iv mine.”

“‘I humbly ask your pardon,’ he says, showin’ a star; ’but I’m a polisman.’

“‘Polisman or robber,’ says I, ‘stand aside!’ I says.

“‘I’m a polisman,’ he says, ‘an’ I’m undher ordhers to be polite with citizens I stop,’ he says; ’but, if ye don’t duck up that road in half a minyit, ye poy-faced, red-eyed, lop-eared, thick-headed ol’ bosthoon,’ he says, ‘I’ll take ye be th’ scruff iv th’ neck an’ thrun ye into th’ ga-as-house tank,’ he says, ’if I’m coort-martialed f’r it to-morrow.’

“Thin I knew he was a polisman; an’ I wint away, Jawn.”

SHAUGHNESSY.

“Jawn,” said Mr. Dooley in the course of the conversation, “whin ye come to think iv it, th’ heroes iv th’ wurruld,—­an’ be thim I mean th’ lads that’ve buckled on th’ gloves, an’ gone out to do th’ best they cud,—­they ain’t in it with th’ quite people nayether you nor me hears tell iv fr’m wan end iv th’ year to another.”

“I believe it,” said Mr. McKenna; “for my mother told me so.”

“Sure,” said Mr. Dooley, “I know it is an old story.  Th’ wurruld’s been full iv it fr’m th’ beginnin’; an’ ’ll be full iv it till, as Father Kelly says, th’ pay-roll’s closed.  But I was thinkin’ more iv it th’ other night thin iver before, whin I wint to see Shaughnessy marry off his on’y daughter.  You know Shaughnessy,—­a quite man that come into th’ road before th’ fire.  He wurruked f’r Larkin, th’ conthractor, f’r near twinty years without skip or break, an’ seen th’ fam’ly grow up be candle-light.  Th’ oldest boy was intinded f’r a priest.  ‘Tis a poor fam’ly that hasn’t some wan that’s bein’ iddycated f’r the priesthood while all th’ rest wear thimsilves to skeletons f’r him, an’ call him Father Jawn ’r Father Mike whin he comes home wanst a year, light-hearted an’ free, to eat with thim.

“Shaughnessy’s lad wint wrong in his lungs, an’ they fought death f’r him f’r five years, sindin’ him out to th’ Wist an’ havin’ masses said f’r him; an’, poor divvle, he kept comin’ back cross an’ crool, with th’ fire in his cheeks, till wan day he laid down, an’ says he:  ‘Pah,’ he says, ‘I’m goin’ to give up,’ he says.  ‘An’ I on’y ask that ye’ll have th’ mass sung over me be some man besides Father Kelly,’ he says.  An’ he wint, an’ Shaughnessy come clumpin’ down th’ aisle like a man in a thrance.

“Well, th’ nex’ wan was a girl, an’ she didn’t die; but, th’ less said, th’ sooner mended.  Thin they was Terrence, a big, bould, curly-headed lad that cocked his hat at anny man,—­or woman f’r th’ matter iv that,—­an’ that bruk th’ back iv a polisman an’ swum to th’ crib, an’ was champeen iv th’ South Side at hand ball.  An’ he wint.  Thin th’