Mr. Dooley Says by Finley Peter Dunne (best contemporary novels .txt) 📗

a union, an' shud demand a raise iv a millyon dollars a year, reduction iv wurrukin' time fr'm two to wan hour ivry week, th' closed shop, two apprentices f'r each bank an' no wan allowed to make money onless he cud show a union card? Whin th' sthrike comity waited on us we'd hoist our feet on th' kitchen table, light a seegar, polish our bone collar button with th' sleeve iv our flannel shirt an' till thim to go to Bannagher.

"We'd say: 'Ye'er demands are onraisonable an' we will not submit. F'r years we have run th' shop almost at a loss. There are plenty iv men to take ye'er places. They may not be as efficient at first but they'll soon larn. Ye'er demands are refused an' ye can bang th' dure afther ye.' A fine chanct a millyonaire wud have thryin' to persuade ye be peaceful means fr'm takin' his job. Think iv him on th' dead line thryin' to coax ye not to go in but to stand by him as he would sit on ye if you were in th' same position. Wud ye or wud ye not lave ye'er coat in his hands as ye plunged in th' bank? They'd have to resort to vilence. Th' stock exchange wud go out in sympathy. Th' milishy wud be called out an' afther awhile th' financeers wud come back with their hats in their hands an' find their old places took be other men.

"No, sir, a sthrike iv financeers wudden't worry anny wan. 'Tis a sthrange thing whin we come to think iv it that th' less money a man gets f'r his wurruk, th' more nicissry it is to th' wurruld that he shud go on wurrukin'. Ye'er boss can go to Paris on a combination wedding an' divoorce thrip an' no wan bothers his head about him. But if ye shud go to Paris—excuse me f'r laughin' mesilf black in th' face—th' industhrees iv the counthry pines away.

"An' th' higher up a man regards his wurruk, th' less it amounts to. We cud manage to scrape along without electhrical injineers but we'd have a divvle iv a time without scavengers. Ye look down on th' fellow that dhrives th' dump cart, but if it wasn't f'r him ye'd niver be able to pursoo ye'er honorable mechanical profissyon iv pushin' th' barrow. Whin Andhrew Carnagie quit, ye wint on wurrukin'; if ye quit wurruk, he'll have to come back. P'raps that's th' reason th' wurrukin' man don't get more iv thim little pictures iv a buffalo in his pay envelope iv a Saturdah night. If he got more money he wud do less wurruk. He has to be kept in thrainin'.

"Th' way to make a man useful to th' wurruld is to give him a little money an' a lot iv wurruk. An' 'tis th' on'y way to make him happy, too. I don't mean coarse, mateeryal happiness like private yachts an' autymobills an' rich food an' other corrodin' pleasures. I mean something entirely diffr'ent. I don't know what I mean but I see in th' pa-apers th' other day that th' on'y road to happiness was hard wurruk. 'Tis a good theery. Some day I'm goin' to hire a hall an' preach it in Newport. I wudden't mintion it in Ar-rchy Road where wurruk abounds. I don't want to be run in f'r incitin' a riot.

"This pa-aper says th' farmer niver sthrikes. He hasn't got th' time to. He's too happy. A farmer is continted with his ten-acre lot. There's nawthin' to take his mind off his wurruk. He sleeps at night with his nose against th' shingled roof iv his little frame home an' dhreams iv cinch bugs. While th' stars are still alight he walks in his sleep to wake th' cow that left th' call f'r four o'clock. Thin it's ho! f'r feedin' th' pigs an' mendin' th' reaper. Th' sun arises as usual in th' east an' bein' a keen student iv nature, he picks a cabbage leaf to put in his hat. Breakfast follows, a gay meal beginnin' at nine an' endin' at nine-three. Thin it's off f'r th' fields where all day he sets on a bicycle seat an' reaps the bearded grain an' th' Hessian fly, with nawthin' but his own thoughts an' a couple iv horses to commune with. An' so he goes an' he's happy th' livelong day if ye don't get in ear-shot iv him. In winter he is employed keepin' th' cattle fr'm sufferin' his own fate an' writin' testymonyals iv dyspepsia cures. 'Tis sthrange I niver heerd a farmer whistle except on Sunday.

"No, sir, ye can't tell me that a good deal iv wurruk is good f'r anny man. A little wurruk is not bad, a little wurruk f'r th' stomach's sake an' to make ye sleep sound, a kind of nightcap, d'ye mind. But a gr-reat deal iv wurruk, especially in th' summer time, will hurt anny man that indulges in it. So, though I don't sympathize with sthrikers, I congratulate thim. Sthrike, says I, while the iron is hot an' ye'er most needed to pound it into a horseshoe. An' especially wud I advise ivrybody to sthrike whin th' weather is hot."

DRUGS

"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.'

"Ye begin to think there's a conspiracy against ye to get ye'er money befure he saunters into th' room an' says in a gay tone: 'Well, what d'ye mane be tyin' up wan iv th' gr-reat industhrees iv our nation be stayin' away fr'm wurruk f'r a day?' 'Dock,' says ye in a feeble voice, 'I have a tur'ble pain in me abdumdum. It reaches fr'm here to here,' makin' a rough sketch iv th' burned disthrict undher th' blanket. 'I felt it comin' on last night but I didn't say annything f'r fear iv alarmin' me wife, so I simply groaned,' says ye.

"While ye ar-re describin' ye'er pangs, he walks around th' room lookin' at th' pictures. Afther ye've got through he comes over an says: 'Lave me look at ye'er tongue. 'Hum,' he says, holdin' ye'er wrist an' bowin' through th' window to a frind iv his on a sthreet car. 'Does that hurt?' he says, stabbin' ye with his thumbs in th' suburbs iv th' pain. 'Ye know it does,' says ye with a groan. 'Don't do that again. Ye scratched me.' He hurls ye'er wrist back at ye an' stands at th' window lookin' out at th' firemen acrost th' sthreet playin' dominoes. He says nawthin' to ye an' ye feel like th' prisoner while th' foreman iv th' jury is fumblin' in his inside pocket f'r th' verdict. Ye can stand it no longer. 'Dock,' says he, 'is it annything fatal? I'm not fit to die but tell me th' worst an' I will thry to bear it. 'Well,' says he, 'ye have a slight interioritis iv th' semi-colon. But this purscription ought to fix ye up all right. Ye'd betther take it over to th' dhrug sthore an' have it filled ye'ersilf. In th' manetime I'd advise ye to be careful iv ye'er dite. I wudden't ate annything with glass or a large percintage iv plasther iv Paris in it.' An' he goes away to write his bill.

"I wondher why ye can always read a doctor's bill an' ye niver can read his purscription. F'r all ye know, it may be a short note to th' dhruggist askin' him to hit ye on th' head with a pestle. An' it's a good thing ye can't read it. If ye cud, ye'd say: 'I'll not cash this in at no dhrug store. I'll go over to Dooley's an' get th' rale thing.' So, afther thryin' to decipher this here corner iv a dhress patthern, ye climb into ye'er clothes f'r what may be ye'er last walk up Ar-rchy Road. As ye go along ye begin to think that maybe th' Dock knows ye have th' Asiatic cholery an' was onl'y thryin' to jolly ye with his manner iv dealin' with ye. As ye get near th' dhrug store ye feel sure iv it, an' 'tis with th' air iv a man without hope that ye hand th' paper to a young pharmycist who is mixin' a two-cent stamp f'r a lady customer. He hands it over to a scientist who is compoundin' an ice-cream soda f'r a child, with th' remark: 'O'Leary's writin' is gettin' worse an' worse. I can't make this out at all.' 'Oh,' says th' chemist, layin' down his spoon, 'that's his old cure f'r th' bellyache. Ye'll find a bucket iv it in th' back room next to th' coal scuttle.'

"It's a gr-reat medicine he give ye. It will do ye good no matther what ye do with it. I wud first thry poorin' some iv it in me hair. If that don't help ye see how far ye can throw th' bottle into th' river. Ye feel betther already. Ye ought to write to th' medical journals about th' case. It is a remarkable cure. 'M—— H—— was stricken with excruciating tortures in th' gastric regions followin' an unusually severe outing in th' counthry. F'r a time it looked as though it might be niciss'ry to saw out th' infected area, but as this wud lave an ugly space between legs an' chin, it was determined to apply Jam. Gin. VIII. Th' remedy acted instantly. Afther carryin' th' bottle uncorked f'r five minyits in his inside pocket th' patient showed signs iv recovery an' is now