Having delivered himself of this tirade, Mr. Dooley scrutinized Mr. McKenna sharply, and continued:  “Ye’ve been out ilictin’ some man, Jawn, an’ ye needn’t deny it.  I seen it th’ minyit ye come in.  Ye’er hat’s dinted, an’ ye have ye’er necktie over ye’er ear; an’ I see be ye’er hand ye’ve hit a Dutchman.  Jawn, ye know no more about politics thin a mimber iv this here Civic Featheration.  Didn’t ye have a beer bottle or an ice-pick?  Ayether iv thim is good, though, whin I was a young man an’ precint captain an’ intherested in th’ welfare iv th’ counthry, I found a couplin’ pin in a stockin’ about as handy as annything.

“Thim days is over, though, Jawn, an’ between us politics don’t intherest me no more.  They ain’t no liveliness in thim.  Whin Andy Duggan r-run f’r aldherman against Schwartzmeister, th’ big Dutchman,—­I was precinct captain then, Jawn,—­there was an iliction f’r ye.  ’Twas on our precinct they relied to ilict Duggan; f’r the Dutch was sthrong down be th’ thrack, an’ Schwartzmeister had a band out playin’ ‘Th’ Watch on th’ Rhine.’  Well, sir, we opened th’ polls at six o’clock, an’ there was tin Schwartzmeister men there to protect his intherests.  At sivin o’clock there was only three, an’ wan iv thim was goin’ up th’ sthreet with Hinnissy kickin’ at him.  At eight o’clock, be dad,’ there was on’y wan; an’ he was sittin’ on th’ roof iv Gavin’s blacksmith shop, an’ th’ la-ads was thryin’ to borrow a laddher fr’m th’ injine-house f’r to get at him.  ’Twas thruck eighteen; an’ Hogan, that was captain, wudden’t let thim have it.  Not ye’er Hogan, Jawn, but th’ meanest fireman in Bridgeport.  He got kilt aftherwards.  He wudden’t let th’ la-ads have a laddher, an’ th’ Dutchman stayed up there; an’, whin there was nawthin’ to do, we wint over an’ thrun bricks at him.  ’Twas gr-reat sport.

“About four in th’ afthernoon Schwartzmeister’s band come up Ar-rchey Road, playin’ ‘Th’ Watch on th’ Rhine.’  Whin it got near Gavin’s, big Peter Nolan tuk a runnin’ jump, an’ landed feet first in th’ big bass dhrum.  Th’ man with th’ dhrum walloped him over th’ head with th’ dhrum-stick, an’ Dorsey Quinn wint over an’ tuk a slide trombone away fr’m the musician an’ clubbed th’ bass dhrum man with it.  Thin we all wint over, an’ ye niver see th’ like in ye’er born days.  Th’ las’ I see iv th’ band it was goin’ down th’ road towards th’ slough with a mob behind it, an’ all th’ polis foorce fr’m Deerin’ Sthreet afther th’ mob.  Th’ la-ads collected th’ horns an’ th’ dhrums, an’ that started th’ Ar-rchey Road brass band.  Little Mike Doyle larned to play ‘Th’ Rambler fr’m Clare’ beautifully on what they call a pickle-e-o befure they sarved a rayplivin writ on him.