“What’s it about?” asked Mr. Hennessy.

“’Twas this way,” said Mr. Dooley.  “I have it fr’m Hogan, me lithry adviser.  He keeps me posted on what’s goin’ on in lithrachoor, an’ I do th’ same f’r him on crime.  I’ve always got a little something that’s excitin’ comin’ to me, but this time he’s made good.  It seems, ye see, that a good manny iv th’ la-ads that write th’ books have been lavin’ th’ route iv th’ throlley line an’ takin’ to th’ woods.  They quit Myrtle an’ Clarence an’ th’ wrong done to Oscar Lumlovitch be th’ brutal foreman iv lard tank nine, an’ wint to wurruk on th’ onhappy love affairs iv Carrie Boo, th’ deer, an’ th’ throubles in th’ domestic relations iv th’ pan fish an’ th’ skate.  F’r th’ last year th’ on’y books that Hogan has told me about have been wrote about animiles.  I’ve always thought iv th’ beasts iv th’ forest prowlin’ around an’ takin’ a leg off a man that’d been sint to Colorado f’r his lungs.  But these boys tell me they’re diff’rent in their home life.  They fall in love, get marrid an’ divoorced, bring up fam’lies, an’ are supported or devoured be thim, as th’ case may be, accumylate money, dodge taxes, dhrink to excess, an’ in ivry way act like human bein’s.  I wudden’t be surprised to know that a bear had a tillyphone in his room, an’ that th’ gopher complained iv his gas bills.

“Ivry time I go up into th’ park to see me old frind th’ illyphant I wondher what dhreams ar-re goin’ on behind that nose iv his that he uses akelly as a garden hose, a derrick, or a knife an’ fork.  Is he recallin’ th’ happy days at Barnum’s befure brutal man sunk an ice pick into him an’ dhrove him to th’ park?  Is there some wan still there that he thinks iv?  Is she alive, is she dead, does she iver dhream iv him as she ates her hay an’ rubs her back agin th’ bars iv her gilded cage?  There’s th’ hippypotamus.  He don’t look to be full iv sintiment, but ye never can tell.  Manny an achin’ heart beats behind a cold an’ sloppy exteeryor.  Somewhere in sunny Africa a loving fam’ly may be waitin’ fr him.  Th’ wallow at th’ riverside is there, with th’ slime an’ ooze arranged be tinder paws.  But he will not return.  They will meet, but they will miss him, there will be wan vacant lair.

“Well, sir, just as I’d got to th’ frame iv mind whin I’m thinkin’ iv askin’ that gloomy lookin’ allygator in th’ park up to spind an avenin’ with me, along comes Tiddy Rosenfelt an’ says there’s nawthin’ in it.  It’s hard on th’ boys.  They ar-re doin’ th’ best they can.  Ye can’t expect an author to lave his comfortable flat an’ go three or four thousand miles to larn whether th’ hero iv his little love story murdhers his uncle be bitin’ him abaft th’ ear or be fellin’ him with a half Nelson an’ hammer-lock.  Why should he?  Who wud feed th’ goold fish while he was gone?