“I’ve asked some ladies an’ gintlemen to a five o’clock rivolution at my house,’ he says; ‘an’ I’d like to be sure they’ll be no disordher,’ he says.  ‘Well,’ says th’ chief, ‘’twill not be aisy,’ he says.  ’Ye see th’ prisident—­I f’rget his name—­has been asked to go to th’ r-races with some frinds,’ he says; ‘an’ they will prob’bly thry to kill him,’ he says.  ‘We can’t play anny fav’rites here,’ he says.  ’We have to protect th’ low as well as th’ high,’ he says.  ’If annything happens to this man, th’ case is li’ble to be taken up be th’ ex-prisidents’ association; an’ they’re num’rous enough to make throuble f’r us,’ he says.  ‘But,’ he says, ’I’ll do what I can f’r ye, me ol’ frind,’ he says.  ‘Give us th’ best ye have,’ says Jools; ‘an’, if ye’ve nawthin’ to do afther ye close up, ye might dhrop in,’ he says, ‘an’ have a manifesto with us,’ he says.  ’Come just as ye ar-re,’ he says. ‘’Tis an informal rivolution,’ he says.

“An’ away he wint.  At sharp five o’clock th’ rivolution begun.  Th’ sthreets was dinsely packed with busy journalists, polis, sojers, an’ fash’nably dhressed ladies who come down fr’m th’ Chang’s All Easy in motocycles.  There was gr-reat excitement as Jools come to th’ windy an’ pinned a copy iv his vallyable journal on th’ sill, accompanied be a thrusty liftnant wavin’ a statement iv th’ circulation iv th’ Anti-Jew.  Jools at this moment was a tur-rble sight.  He was dhressed fr’m head to foot in Harveyized, bomb-proof steel, with an asbestos rose in his buttonhole.  Round his waist was sthrapped four hundherd rounds iv ca’tridges an’ eight days’ provisions.  He car-rid a Mauser rifle on each shoulder, a machine gun undher wan ar-rm, a dinnymite bomb undher another, an’ he was smoking a cigareet.  ‘Ladies an’ gintlemen,’ he says, ‘I’m proud an’ pleased to see ye prisint in such lar-rge numbers at th’ first rivolution iv th’ prisint season,’ he says.  ‘With th’ kind permission iv th’ hated polis undher th’ di-rection iv me good frind an’ fellow-journalist, Loot Franswoo Coppere, an’ th’ ar-rmy, f’r whose honor ivry Fr-renchman ’ll lay down his life, th’ siege will now begin.  We will not,’ he says, ’lave this house till we have driven ivry cur-rsed Cosmypollitan or Jew,’ he says, ‘fr’m this noble land iv th’ br-rave an’ home iv th’ flea,’ he says.  ‘Veev Fr-rance!’ he says.  ‘Veev Jools Guerin!’ he says.  ‘Conspuez Rothscheeld!’ he says.  ‘It’s ye’er move, Loot,’ he says to th’ polisman.

“‘I defer to th’ ar-rmy whose honor is beyond reproach,’ says th’ polisman, ‘or recognition,’ he says.  ‘Veev l’army!’ he says.

“‘Thank ye,’ says Gin’ral Bellow, salutin’.  ’I will do me jooty.  Man can do no more,’ he says.  ‘Jools,’ he says, ‘surrinder,’ he says.  ’Ye cannot longer hol’ out,’ he says.  ’Ye have provisions on’y f’r eight years.’

“‘We will remain till th’ last wan iv us perishes iv indigestion,’ says Jools.

“‘Thin I must take sthrong measures,’ says th’ gin’ral.  ’At a given signal we will storm th’ house, bate down th’ dures, smash in th’ roofs, cut off th’ gas, poison th’ wather supply, back up th’ sewer, break th’ windys, an’ r-raise th’ rint.’”