“What ails ye?” asked Mr. Dooley of Mr. Hennessy, who looked dejected.

“I’m a sick man,” said Mr. Hennessy.

“Since th’ picnic?”

“Now that I come to think iv it, it did begin th’ day afther th’ picnic,” said Mr. Hennessy.  “I’ve been to see Dock O’Leary.  He give me this an’ these here pills an’ some powdhers besides.  An’ d’ye know, though I haven’t taken anny iv thim yet, I feel betther already.”

“Well, sir,” said Mr. Dooley, “’tis a grand thing to be a doctor.  A man that’s a doctor don’t have to buy anny funny papers to enjye life.  Th’ likes iv ye goes to a picnic an’ has a pleasant, peaceful day in th’ counthry dancin’ breakdowns an’ kickin’ a football in th’ sun an’ ivry fifteen minyits or so washin’ down a couple of dill-pickles with a bottle of white pop.  Th’ next day ye get what’s comin’ to ye in th’ right place an’ bein’ a sthrong, hearty man that cudden’t be kilt be annything less thin a safe fallin’ on ye fr’m a twenty-story building ye know ye ar-re goin’ to die.  Th’ good woman advises a mustard plasther but ye scorn th’ suggestion.  What good wud a mustard plasther be again this fatal epidemic that is ragin’ inside iv ye?  Besides a mustard plasther wud hurt.  So th’ good woman, frivilous crather that she is, goes back to her wurruk singin’ a light chune.  She knows she’s goin’ to have to put up with ye f’r some time to come.  A mustard plasther, Hinnissy, is th’ rale test iv whether a pain is goin’ to kill ye or not.  If the plasther is onbearable ye can bet th’ pain undherneath it is not.

“But ye know ye are goin’ to die an’ ye’re not sure whether ye’ll send f’r Father Kelly or th’ doctor.  Ye finally decide to save up Father Kelly f’r th’ last an’ ye sind f’r th’ Dock.  Havin’ rescued ye fr’m th’ jaws iv death two or three times befure whin ye had a sick headache th’ Dock takes his time about comin’, but just as ye are beginnin’ to throw ye’er boots at th’ clock an’ show other signs iv what he calls rigem mortar, he rides up in his fine horse an’ buggy.  He gets out slowly, one foot at a time, hitches his horse an’ ties a nose bag on his head.  Thin he chats f’r two hundherd years with th’ polisman on th’ beat.  He tells him a good story an’ they laugh harshly.

“Whin th’ polisman goes his way th’ Dock meets th’ good woman at th’ dure an’ they exchange a few wurruds about th’ weather, th’ bad condition iv th’ sthreets, th’ health iv Mary Ann since she had th’ croup an’ ye’ersilf.  Ye catch th’ wurruds, ‘Grape Pie,’ ‘Canned Salmon,’ ‘Cast-iron digestion.’  Still he doesn’t come up.  He tells a few stories to th’ childher.  He weighs th’ youngest in his hands an’ says:  ’That’s a fine boy ye have, Mrs. Hinnissy.  I make no doubt he’ll grow up to be a polisman.’  He examines th’ phottygraft album an’ asks if that isn’t so-an’-so.  An’ all this time ye lay writhin’ in mortal agony an’ sayin’ to ye’ersilf:  ’Inhuman monsther, to lave me perish here while he chats with a callous woman that I haven’t said annything but What? to f’r twinty years.’