“‘Well,’ says Mack, ‘sit down,’ he says.  ‘Rockyfeller,’ he says, ’tell Morgan f’r to fetch up a kag iv sherry wine,’ he says.  ‘Tom,’ he says, ‘we’ve been frinds f’r years,’ he says.  ‘We have,’ says Tom.  ‘We’ve concealed it fr’m th’ vulgar an’ pryin’ public,’ he says; ’but in our hear-rts we’ve been frinds, barrin’ th’ naygur dillygates at th’ convintion,’ he says. ‘’Twas a mere incident,’ says Mack.  ’We’ve been frinds,’ he says; ‘an’ I’ve always wanted,’ he says, ’to do something f’r ye,’ he says.  ‘Th’ time has come,’ he says, ’whin I can realize me wish,’ he says.  ‘I offer ye,’ he says, ‘th’ Prisidincy, to succeed me,’ he says.  ‘No, no,’ he says, ‘I’ll not be rayfused,’ he says.  ‘I’m tired iv it,’ he says. ’’Twas foorced on me be foolish frinds,’ he says; ‘but I’m not th’ man f’r th’ place,’ he says.  ’I haven’t dhrawn a comfortable breath, not to speak iv salary, since I wint in,’ he says.

“Th’ speaker iv th’ house burrid his face in his hands, an’ sobs shook him partly f’r manny minyits.  Thin he raised his head, an’ says he, ‘Mack,’ he says, ‘I can’t take it,’ he says. ’’Tis most gin’rous iv ye,’ he says, ‘but me hear-rt fails me,’ he says.  ’What is it to be Prisident?’ says he.  ‘Th’ White House,’ he says, ‘is a prison,’ he says, ‘to which a man is condimned,’ he says, ‘f’r fine wurruk at th’ polls,’ he says.  ‘Th’ life iv a Prisident is slavery,’ he says.  ’If I was to take th’ job,’ he says, ‘I’d be tortured day an’ night,’ he says, ‘be th’ fear iv assassination,’ he says.  ‘Think,’ he says, ’iv some arnychist shootin’ thirteen-inch shells at me,’ he says, ‘an’ maybe,’ he says, ‘dentin’ me,’ he says.  ‘No,’ he says, ’I have a good job where I am,’ he says.  ‘All I’ve got to do,’ he says, ’is to set up at th’ desk,’ he says, ‘an’ not recall th’ names iv th’ gintlemen on th’ flure, an’ me jooty’s done,’ he says.  ’I thank ye kindly, Willum; but I cannot accept ye’er gin’rous offer,’ he says.  ‘Go back to th’ cell,’ he says, ‘an’ slave like a convict,’ he says.  ’I will not rob me frind,’ he says, ‘iv such an honor.  But,’ he says, ’tell me whin ye thought iv throwin’ up th’ job, an’ lavin’ me br-reak into this hateful prison,’ he says.  ‘About th’ year two thousan’ an’ eight, dear frind,’ says Mack.  ‘No, no,’ says Tom Reed.  ‘I cannot accept it,’ he says, pressin’ Mack’s hand. ‘’Tis too much,’ he says, ‘an’ too long,’ he says.

“‘I lave ye,’ he says, ‘but I’ll call on ye,’ he says.  ‘Take,’ he says, ‘this little silver-mounted bottle iv broomo-caffeen,’ he says, ‘an’ think iv me,’ he says.  ‘I will,’ says Mack.  ’Ar-ren’t ye tired iv ye’er long journey?’ he says.  ‘Wudden’t ye like to take a bath in th’ shark pond before ye go?’ he says.  An’ so they backed away fr’m each other, th’ tears rollin’ down their cheeks.  Frindship, Hinnissy, is a sacred thing.”

“It is,” said Mr. Hennessy, “if they are; but I don’t b’lieve wan wurrud ye tol’ me.”

“Well,” said Mr. Dooley, “if they ain’t both frinds, wan iv thim is.  An’, annyhow, I’m glad to know Tom Reed ain’t thryin’ to break into jail.”