“An’ so th’ consul at Ding Dong, th’ man that r-runs that end iv th’ war, he says to Aggynaldoo:  ‘Go,’ he says, ‘where glory waits ye,’ he says.  ‘Go an’ sthrike a blow,’ he says, ‘f’r ye’er counthry,’ he says.  ‘Go,’ he says.  ‘I’ll stay, but you go,’ he says.  ‘They’s nawthin’ in stayin’, an’ ye might get hold iv a tyrannical watch or a pocket book down beyant,’ he says.  An’ off wint th’ brave pathrite to do his jooty.  He done it, too.  Whin Cousin George was pastin’ th’ former hated Castiles, who was it stood on th’ shore shootin’ his bow-an-arrow into th’ sky but Aggynaldoo?  Whin me frind Gin’ral Merritt was ladin’ a gallant charge again blank catredges, who was it ranged his noble ar-rmy iv pathrites behind him f’r to see that no wan attackted him fr’m th’ sea but Aggynaldoo?  He was a good man thin,—­a good noisy man.

“Th’ throuble was he didn’t know whin to knock off.  He didn’t hear th’ wurruk bell callin’ him to come in fr’m playin’ ball an’ get down to business.  Says me Cousin George:  “Aggynaldoo, me buck,’ he says, ‘th’ war is over,’ he says, ‘an’ we’ve settled down to th’ ol’ game,’ he says.  ‘They’re no more heroes.  All iv thim has gone to wurruk f’r th’ magazines.  They’re no more pathrites,’ he says.  ’They’ve got jobs as gov’nors or ar-re lookin’ f’r thim or annything else,’ he says.  ’All th’ prom’nint saviors iv their counthry,’ he says, ‘but mesilf,’ he says, ‘is busy preparin’ their definse,’ he says.  ‘I have no definse,’ he says; ‘but I’m where they can’t reach me,’ he says.  ‘Th’ spoort is all out iv th’ job; an’, if ye don’t come in an’ jine th’ tilin masses iv wage-wurrukers,’ he says, ‘ye won’t even have th’ credit iv bein’ licked in a gloryous victhry,’ he says.  ‘So to th’ woodpile with ye!’ he says; ‘f’r ye can’t go on cillybratin’ th’ Foorth iv July without bein’ took up f’r disordherly conduct,’ he says.

“An’ Aggynaldoo doesn’t undherstand it.  An’ he gathers his Archery Club ar-round him, an’ says he:  ‘Fellow-pathrites,’ he says, ’we’ve been betrayed,’ he says.  ‘We’ve been sold out without,’ he says, ‘gettin’ th’ usual commission,’ he says.  ‘We’re still heroes,’ he says; ‘an’ our pitchers is in th’ pa-apers,’ he says.  ‘Go in,’ he says, ‘an’ sthrike a blow at th’ gay deceivers,’ he says.  ’I’ll sell ye’er lives dearly,’ he says.  An’ th’ Archery Club wint in.  Th’ pathrites wint up again a band iv Kansas sojers, that was wanst heroes befure they larned th’ hay-foot-sthraw-foot, an’ is now arnin’ th’ wages iv a good harvest hand all th’ year ar-round, an’ ’d rather fight than ate th’ ar-rmy beef, an’ ye know what happened.  Some iv th’ poor divvles iv heroes is liberated fr’m th’ cares iv life; an’ th’ r-rest iv thim is up in threes, an’ wishin’ they was home, smokin’ a good see-gar with mother.

“An’ all this because Aggynaldoo didn’t hear th’ whistle blow.  He thought th’ boom was still on in th’ hero business.  If he’d come in, ye’d be hearin’ that James Haitch Aggynaldoo ’d been appointed foorth-class postmasther at Hootchey-Kootchey; but now th’ nex’ ye know iv him ‘ll be on th’ blotther at th’ polis station:  ’James Haitch Aggynaldoo, alias Pompydoor Jim, charged with carryin’ concealed weepins an’ ray-sistin’ an officer.’  Pathriteism always dies when ye establish a polis foorce.”