“Well, sir, I was wrong.  I knew I was wrong th’ minyit I see a pitcher iv Abdul Hamid in th’ pa-aper—­a snap-shot, mind ye!  Think of that, will ye?  D’ye suppose a sultan or a king that knew his thrade wud iver let anny wan take a snap-shot iv him?  Did ye iver hear iv Alexander th’ Gr-reat or Napoleon Bonyparte havin’ a snap-shot took iv him?  No, sir.  Whin they wanted to satisfy th’ vulgar curiosity iv th’ popylace to know what their lord looked like, they chained an artist to a wall in th’ cellar of th’ palace an’, says they:  ‘Now set down an’ paint a pitcher iv me that will get ye out iv here,’ says they.  Nobody in thim days knew that th’ king had a mole on his nose an’ that wan iv his eyes was made iv glass, excipt th’ people that had jobs to lose.

“Up to th’ time Abdul Hamid wint thrapezin’ around Constantinople in a hack an’ havin’ his pitcher took be amachoor phottygrafters his job was secure.  Up to that time whin wan Turk talked to another about him they talked in whispers.  ‘What d’ye suppose he’s like, Osman?’ says wan.  ’Oh me, oh my,’ says th’ other, ‘but he’s th’ tur-rble wan.  They says his voice is like thunder, an’ lightnin’ shoots fr’m his eyes that wud shrivel th’ likes iv ye an’ me to a cinder.’  But whin Abdul, be damid, as th’ potes call him, made th’ mistake iv pokin’ his head out iv th’ palace ’twas diff’rent.  ‘Well, who d’ye think I see to-day but th’ Sultan.  I tell ye I did.  What is he like?  He ain’t much to look at—­a skinny little man, Osman, that ye cud sthrangle between ye’er thumb an’ forefinger.  He had a bad cold an’ was sneezin’.  He wore a hand-me-down coat.  He has a wen on th’ back iv his neck an’ he’s crosseyed.  Here’s a pitcher iv him.’  ’What, that little runt?  Ye don’t mean to say that’s th’ Sultan.—­Why, he looks like th’ fellow that stops me ivry day on th’ corner an’ asks me have I anny old clothes betther thin what I have on.  An’ to think iv th’ likes iv him rulin’ over th’ likes iv us.  Let’s throw him out.’

“So it was with me old frind Abdul.  Wan day a captain an’ a squad iv polis backed th’ wagon up to th’ dure iv th’ palace an’ rung th’ bell.  ‘Who’s there?’ says th’ Sultan, stuffin’ th’ loose change into his shoe.  ‘Th’ house is pulled,’ says th’ captain.  ’Ye’er license is expired.  Ye’d betther come peaceful,’ he says.  An’ they bust in th’ dure an’ th’ Sultan puts a shirt an’ a couple iv collars into a grip an’ selicts iliven iv his least formid-able wives to go along with him an’ they put on their bonnets an’ shawls an’ carry out their bur-rd cages an’ their goold fish an’ their fancy wurruk an’ th’ pathrol wagon starts off an’ has to stop so that iliven iv thim can go back an’ get something they f’rgot at th’ last moment an’ th’ ex-commander iv th’ faithful says, ‘Did ye iver know wan iv thim to be ready, Cap?’ an’ th’ captain says, ‘They’re all alike, Doc,’ an’ th’ dhriver clangs th’ bell, an’ off goes th’ mighty potentate to a two-story frame house in Englewood.