Mr. Dooley's Philosophy by Finley Peter Dunne (novel books to read txt) 📗

partly me an' partly me folks,' he says. 'I was,' he says, in a voice broken be tears, 'I was,' he says, 'bor-rn in New York,' he says. Th' clark made th' sign iv th' cross an' says he: 'Ye shudden't have come here,' he says. 'Poor afflicted wretch,' he says, 'ye need a clargyman,' he says. 'Why did ye seek me out?' he says. 'Because,' says Willum Waldorf Asthor, 'I wish,' he says, 'f'r to renounce me sinful life,' he says. 'I wish to be bor-rn anew,' he says. An' th' clark bein' a kind man helps him out. An' Willum Waldorf Asthor renounced fealty to all foreign sovereigns, princes an' potentates an' especially Mack th' Wanst, or Twict, iv th' United States an' Sulu an' all his wur-ruks an' he come out iv th' coort with his hat cocked over his eye, with a step jaunty and high, afther years iv servile freedom a bondman at last!

“So he's a citizen iv Gr-reat Britain now an' a lile subject iv th' Queen like you was Hinnissy befure ye was r-run out.”

“I niver was,” said Mr. Hennessy. “Sure th' Queen iv England was renounced f'r me long befure I did it f'r mesilf—to vote.”

“Well, niver mind,” Mr. Dooley continued, “he's a citizen iv England an' he has a castle that's as big as a hotel, on'y nobody goes there excipt thim that's ast, an' not all of those, an' he owns a newspaper an' th' editor iv it's the Prince iv Wales an' th' rayporthers is all jooks an' th' Archbishop iv Canterbury r-runs th' ilivator, an' slug wan in th' printin' office is th' Impror iv Germany in disgeese. 'Tis a pa-per I'd like to see. I'd like to know how th' Jook iv Marlbro'd do th' McGovern fight. An' some day Willum Waldorf Asthor'll be able to wurruk f'r his own pa-aper, f'r he's goin' to be a earl or a markess or a jook or somethin' gran'. Ye can't be anny iv these things without money, Hinnissy, an' he has slathers iv it.”

“Where does he get it?” demanded Mr. Hennessy.

“F'rm this counthry,” said Mr. Dooley.

“I shud think,” Mr. Hennessy protested stoutly, “if he's ashamed iv this counthry he wudden't want to take money f'rm it.”

“That's where ye're wrong,” Mr. Dooley replied. “Take money annywhere ye find it. I'd take money f'rm England, much as I despise that formerly haughty but now dejected land, if I cud get anny from there. An' whin ye come down to it, I dinnaw as I blame Willum Waldorf Asthor f'r shiftin' his allegiance. Ivry wan to his taste as th' man said whin he dhrank out iv th' fire extinguisher. It depinds on how ye feel. If ye ar-re a tired la-ad an' wan without much fight in ye, livin' in this counthry is like thryin' to read th' Lives iv the Saints at a meetin' iv th' Clan-na-Gael. They'se no quiet f'r annybody. They's a fight on ivry minyit iv th' time. Ye may say to ye'ersilf: 'I'll lave these la-ads roll each other as much as they plaze, but I'll set here in th' shade an' dhrink me milk punch, but ye can't do it. Some wan 'll say, 'Look at that gazabo settin' out there alone. He's too proud f'r to jine in our simple dimmycratic festivities. Lave us go over an' bate him on th' eye.' An' they do it. Now if ye have fightin' blood in ye'er veins ye hastily gulp down yeer dhrink an' hand ye'er assailant wan that does him no kind iv good, an' th' first thing ye know ye're in th thick iv it an' its scrap, scrap, scrap till th' undhertaker calls f'r to measure ye. An' 'tis tin to wan they'se somethin' doin' at th' fun'ral that ye're sorry ye missed. That's life in America. Tis a gloryous big fight, a rough an' tumble fight, a Donnybrook fair three thousan' miles wide an' a ruction in ivry block. Head an' ban's an' feet an' th' pitchers on th' wall. No holds barred. Fight fair but don't f'rget th' other la-ad may not know where th' belt line is. No polisman in sight. A man's down with twinty on top iv him wan minyit. Th' next he's settin' on th' pile usin' a base-ball bat on th' neighbor next below him. 'Come on, boys, f'r 'tis growin' late, an' no wan's been kilt yet. Glory be, but this is th' life!'

“Now, if I'm tired I don't want to fight. A man bats me in th' eye an' I call f'r th' polis. They isn't a polisman in sight. I say to th' man that poked me: 'Sir, I fain wud sleep.' 'Get up,' he says, 'an' be doin',' he says. 'Life is rale, life is earnest,' he says, 'an' man was made to fight,' he says, fetchin' me a kick. An' if I'm tired I say, 'What's th' use? I've got plenty iv money in me inside pocket. I'll go to a place where they don't know how to fight. I'll go where I can get something but an argymint f'r me money an' where I won't have to rassle with th' man that bates me carpets, ayether,' I says, 'f'r fifty cints overcharge or good govermint,' I says. An' I pike off to what Hogan calls th' effete monarchies iv Europe an' no wan walks on me toes, an' ivry man I give a dollar to becomes an acrobat an' I live comfortably an' die a markess! Th' divvle I do!

“That's what I was goin' to say,” Mr. Hennessy remarked. “Ye wudden't live annywhere but here.”

“No,” said Mr. Dooley, “I wudden't. I'd rather be Dooley iv Chicago than th' Earl iv Peltvule. It must be that I'm iv th' fightin' kind.”