but was wurrukin’ be th’ day; an’ he wint in in his undherclothes, so’s not to spoil his suit, an’ th’ Castiles hurled death an’ desthruction on him.  An’ it niver touched him no more thin it did anny wan else; an’ thin they riscued him fr’m himsilf, an’ locked him up in th’ polis station an’ fed him th’ best they knew how.  An’ he wint on a lecther tour, an’ here he is.  Be hivins, I think he’s more iv a hero now thin iver he was.  I’d stand up befure a cross-eyed Spanish gunner an’ take his shootin’ without a mask mesilf; but I’d shy hard if anny ol’ heifer come up, an’ thried to kiss me.

“On th’ flure iv th’ ‘Merrimac,’ in his light undherclothes, Loot Hobson was a sthrong, foolish man.  On th’ stage iv th’ Audjitooroom, bein’ caressed be women that ‘d kiss th’ Indyun in front iv a see-gar sthore, if he didn’t carry a tommyhawk, he’s still foolish, but not sthrong.  ‘Tis so with all heroes.  Napolyeon Bonyparte, th’ Impror iv th’ Fr-rinch, had manny carryin’s on, I’ve heerd tell; an’ ivry man knows that, whin Jawn Sullivan wasn’t in th’ r-ring, he was no incyclopedja f’r intelligence.  No wan thried to kiss him, though.  They knew betther.

“An’ Hobson ‘ll larn.  He’s young yet, th’ Loot is; an’ he’s goin’ out to th’ Ph’lippeens to wurruk f’r Cousin George.  Cousin George is no hero, an’ ’tisn’t on record that anny wan iver thried to scandalize his good name be kissin’ him.  I’d as lave, if I was a foolish woman, which, thanks be, I’m not, hug a whitehead torpedo as Cousin George.  He’ll be settin’ up on th’ roof iv his boat, smokin’ a good see-gar, an’ wondhrin’ how manny iv th’ babbies named afther him ‘ll be in th’ pinitinchry be th’ time he gets back home.  Up comes me br-rave Hobson.  ‘Who ar-re ye, disturbin’ me quite?’ says Cousin George.  ‘I’m a hero,’ says th’ Loot.  ‘Ar-re ye, faith?’ says Cousin George.  ‘Well,’ he says, ‘I can’t do annything f’r ye in that line,’ he says.  ‘All th’ hero jobs on this boat,’ he says, ‘is compitintly filled,’ he says, ’be mesilf,’ he says.  ‘I like to see th’ wurruk well done,’ he says, ‘so,’ he says, ‘I don’t thrust it to anny wan,’ he says.  ‘With th’ aid iv a small boy, who can shovel more love letthers an’ pothry overboard thin anny wan I iver see,’ he says, ’I’m able to clane up me hero business before noon ivry day,’ he says.  ‘What’s ye’er name?’ he says.  ‘Hobson,’ says th’ loot.  ’Niver heerd iv ye, says Cousin George.  ’Where ‘d ye wurruk last?’ ‘Why,’ says th’ Loot, ‘I’m th’ man that sunk th’ ship,’ he says; ‘an’ I’ve been kissed be hundherds iv women at home,’ he says.  ‘Is that so?’ says Cousin George.  ’Well, I don’t b’lieve in sinkin’ me own ship,’ he says.  ‘Whin I’m lookin’ f’r a divarsion iv that kind, I sink somebody else’s,’ he says. ’’Tis cheaper.  As f’r th’ other thing,’ he says, ‘th’ less ye say about that, th’ betther,’ he says.  ’If some iv these beauchious Ph’lippeen belles ar-round here hears,’ he says, ’that ye’re in that line, they may call on ye to give ye a chaste