Mr. Dooley: In the Hearts of His Countrymen by Finley Peter Dunne (top novels txt) 📗

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 salute,' he says, 'an',' he says, 'f'rget,' he says, 'to take th' see-gars out iv their mouths,' he says. 'Ye desthroyed a lot iv coal, ye tell me,' he says. 'Do ye,' he says, 'go downstairs now, an' shovel up a ton or two iv it,' he says. 'Afther which,' he says, 'ye can roll a kag iv beer into me bedroom,' he says; 'f'r 'tis dhry wurruk settin' up here watchin' ixpansion ixpand,' he says.

"That's what Cousin George 'll say to th' Loot. An', whin th' Loot comes back, he won't be a hero anny more; an', if anny woman thries to kiss him, he'll climb a three. Cousin George 'll make a man iv him. 'Tis kicks, not kisses, that makes men iv heroes."

"Well, mebbe ye're r-right," said Mr. Hennessy. "He's nawthin' but a kid, annyhow,—no oldher thin me oldest boy; an' I know what a fool he'd be if anny wan ast him to be more iv a fool thin he is. Hobson 'll be famous, no matther what foolish things he does."

"I dinnaw," said Mr. Dooley. "It was headed f'r him; but I'm afraid, as th' bull-yard players 'd say, fame's been kissed off."

 

 

THE DECLINE OF NATIONAL FEELING.

"What ar-re ye goin' to do Patrick's Day?" asked Mr. Hennessy.

"Patrick's Day?" said Mr. Dooley. "Patrick's Day? It seems to me I've heard th' name befure. Oh, ye mane th' day th' low Irish that hasn't anny votes cillybrates th' birth iv their naytional saint, who was a Fr-rinchman."

"Ye know what I mane," said Mr. Hennessy, with rising wrath. "Don't ye get gay with me now."

"Well," said Mr. Dooley, "I may cillybrate it an' I may not. I'm thinkin' iv savin' me enthusyasm f'r th' queen's birthday, whiniver it is that that blessid holiday comes ar-round. Ye see, Hinnissy, Patrick's Day is out iv fashion now. A few years ago ye'd see the Prisident iv th' United States marchin' down Pinnsylvanya Avnoo, with the green scarf iv th' Ancient Ordher on his shoulders an' a shamrock in his hat. Now what is Mack doin'? He's settin' in his parlor, writin' letthers to th' queen, be hivins, askin' afther her health. He was fr'm th' north iv Ireland two years ago, an' not so far north ayether,—just far enough north f'r to be on good terms with Derry an' not far enough to be bad frinds with Limerick. He was raised on butthermilk an' haggis, an' he dhrank his Irish nate with a dash iv orange bitthers in it. He's been movin' steadily north since; an', if he keeps on movin', he'll go r-round th' globe, an' bring up somewhere in th' south iv England.

"An' Hinnery Cabin Lodge! I used to think that Hinnery would niver die contint till he'd took th' Prince iv Wales be th' hair iv th' head,—an' 'tis little th' poor man's got,—an' dhrag him fr'm th' tower iv London to Kilmainham Jail, an' hand him over to th' tindher mercies, as Hogan says, iv Michael Davitt. Thim was th' days whin ye'd hear Hinnery in th' Sinit, spreadin' fear to th' hear-rts iv th' British aristocracy. 'Gintlemen,' he says, 'an' fellow-sinitors, th' time has come,' he says, 'whin th' eagle burrud iv freedom,' he says, 'lavin',' he says, 'its home in th' mountains,' he says, 'an' circlin',' he says, 'undher th' jool 'd hivin,' he says, 'fr'm where,' he says, 'th' Passamaquoddy rushes into Lake Erastus K. Ropes,' he says, 'to where rowls th' Oregon,' he says, 'fr'm th' lakes to th' gulf,' he says, 'fr'm th' Atlantic to th' Passific where rowls th' Oregon,' he says, 'an' fr'm ivry American who has th' blood iv his ancesthors' hathred iv tyranny in his veins,—your ancesthors an' mine, Mr. McAdoo,' he says,—'there goes up a mute prayer that th' nation as wan man, fr'm Bangor, Maine, to where rowls th' Oregon, that,' he says, 'is full iv salmon, which is later put up in cans, but has th' same inthrest as all others in this question,' he says, 'that,' he says, 'th' descindants iv Wash'nton an',' he says, 'iv Immitt,' he says, 'will jine hands f'r to protect,' he says, 'th' codfisheries again th' Vandal hand iv th' British line,' he says. 'I therefore move ye, Mr. Prisident, that it is th' sinse iv this house, if anny such there be, that Tay Pay O'Connor is a greater man thin Lord Salisberry,' he says.

"Now where's Hinnery? Where's th' bould Fenian? Where's th' moonlighter? Where's th' pikeman? Faith, he's changed his chune, an' 'tis 'Sthrangers wanst, but brothers now,' with him, an' 'Hands acrost th' sea an' into some wan's pocket,' an' 'Take up th' white man's burden an' hand it to th' coons,' an' 'An open back dure an' a closed fr-ront dure.' 'Tis th' same with all iv thim. They'se me frind Joe Choate. Where 'd Joe spind th' night? Whisper, in Windsor Castle, no less, in a night-shirt iv th' Prince iv Wales; an' the nex' mornin', whin he come downstairs, they tol' him th' rile fam'ly was late risers, but, if he wanted a good time, he cud go down an' look at th' cimitry! An' he done it. He went out an' wept over th' grave iv th' Father iv his Counthry. Ye'er man, George Washington, Hinnissy, was on'y th' stepfather.

"Well, glory be, th' times has changed since me frind Jawn Finerty come out iv th' House iv Riprisintatives; an', whin some wan ast him what was goin' on, he says, 'Oh, nawthin' at all but some damned American business.' Thim was th' days! An' what's changed thim? Well, I might be sayin' 'twas like wanst whin me cousin Mike an' a Kerry man be th' name iv Sullivan had a gredge again a man named Doherty, that was half a Kerry man himsilf. They kept Doherty indures f 'r a day, but by an' by me cousin Mike lost inthrest in th' gredge, havin' others that was newer, an' he wint over to th' ya-ards; an' Doherty an' Sullivan begin to bow to each other, an' afther a while they found that they were blood relations, an', what's closer thin that whin ye're away fr'm home, townies. An' they hooked arms, an' sthrutted up an' down th' road, as proud as imprors. An' says they, 'We can lick annything in th' ward,' says they. But, before they injyed th' 'lieance f'r long, around th' corner comes me cousin Mike, with a half-brick in each hand; an' me brave Sullivan gives Doherty th' Kerry man's thrip, an' says he, 'Mike,' he says, 'I was on'y pullin' him on to give ye a crack at him,' he says. An' they desthroyed Doherty, so that he was in bed f'r a week."

"Well, I wondher will Mike come back?" said Mr. Hennessy.

"Me cousin Mike," said Mr. Dooley, "niver missed an iliction. An' whin th' campaign opened, there wasn't a man on th' ticket, fr'm mayor to constable, that didn't claim him f'r a first cousin. There are different kinds iv hands from acrost th' sea. There are pothry hands an' rollin'-mill hands; but on'y wan kind has votes."

 

 

"CYRANO DE BERGERAC."

"Ivry winter Hogan's la-ad gives a show with what he calls th' Sixth Wa-ard Shakspere an' Willum J. Bryan Club, an' I was sayjooced into goin' to wan las' night at Finucane's hall," said Mr. Dooley.

"Th' girls was goin'," said Mr. Hennessy; "but th' sthovepipe come down on th' pianny, an' we had a minsthrel show iv our own. What was it about, I dinnaw?"

"Well, sir," said Mr. Dooley, "I ain't much on th' theayter. I niver wint to wan that I didn't have to stand where I cud see a man in blue overalls scratchin' his leg just beyant where the heeroyne was prayin' on th' palace stairs, an' I don't know much about it; but it seemed to me, an' it seemed to Hartigan, th' plumber, that was with me, that 'twas a good play if they'd been a fire in th' first act. They was a lot iv people there; an', if it cud 've been arranged f'r to have injine company fifteen with Cap'n Duffy at th' head iv thim come in through a window an' carry off th' crowd, 'twud've med a hit with me.

"'Tis not like anny play I iver see before or since. In 'Tur-rble Tom; or, th' Boys iv Ninety-eight,' that I see wanst, th' man that's th' main guy iv th' thing he waits till ivry wan has said what he has to say, an' he has a clean field; an' thin he jumps in as th' man that plays th' big dhrum gives it an upper cut. But with this here play iv 'Cyrus O'Bergerac' 'tis far diff'rent. Th' curtain goes up an' shows Bill Delaney an' little Tim Scanlan an' Mark Toolan an' Packy Dugan, that wurruks in the shoe store, an' Molly Donahue an' th' Casey sisters, thim that scandalized th' parish be doin' a skirt dance at th' fair, all walkin' up an' down talkin'. 'Tin to wan on Sharkey,' says Toolan. 'I go ye, an' make it a hundherd,' says Tim Scanlan. 'Was ye at th' cake walk?' 'Who stole me hat?' 'Cudden't ye die waltzin'?' 'They say Murphy has gone on th' foorce.' 'Hivins, there goes th' las' car!' 'Pass th' butther, please: I'm far fr'm home.' All iv thim talkin' away at once, niver carin' f'r no wan, whin all at wanst up stheps me bold Hogan with a nose on him,—glory be, such a nose! I niver see th' like on