Mr. Dooley in Peace and in War by Finley Peter Dunne (best e ink reader for manga .TXT) 📖

They'se other heads that're onaisy, too; but ye don't hear iv thim. But a man gr-rows up in wan iv thim furrin counthries, an' he's thrained f'r to be a king. Hivin may've intinded him f'r a dooce or a jack, at th' most; but he has to follow th' same line as his father. 'Tis like pawn-brokin' that way. Ye niver heerd iv a pawnbroker's son doin' annything else. Wanst a king, always a king. Other men's sons may pack away a shirt in a thrunk, an' go out into th' wurruld, brakin' on a freight or ladin' Indyanny bankers up to a shell game. But a man that's headed f'r a throne can't r-run away. He's got to take th' job. If he kicks, they blindfold him an' back him in. He can't ask f'r his time at th' end iv th' week, an' lave. He pays himsilf. He can't sthrike, because he'd have to ordher out th' polis to subjoo himsilf. He can't go to th' boss, an' say: 'Me hours is too long an' th' wurruk is tajious. Give me me pay-check.' He has no boss. A man can't be indipindint onless he has a boss. 'Tis thrue. So he takes th' place, an' th' chances ar-re he's th' biggest omadhon in th' wurruld, an' knows no more about r-runnin' a counthry thin I know about ladin' an orchesthry. An', if he don't do annything, he's a dummy, an', if he does do annything, he's crazy; an' whin he dies, his foreman says: 'Sure, 'tis th' divvle's own time I had savin' that bosthoon fr'm desthroyin' himsilf. If it wasn't f'r me, th' poor thing'd have closed down the wurruks, an' gone to th' far-rm long ago.' An' wan day, whin he's takin' th' air, p'raps, along comes an Eyetalyan, an' says he, 'Ar-re ye a king?' 'That's my name,' says his majesty. 'Betther dead,' says th' Eyetalyan; an' they'se a scramble, an' another king goes over th' long r-road.

"I don't know much about arnychists. We had thim here—wanst. They wint again polismen, mostly. Mebbe that's because polismen's th' nearest things to kings they cud find. But, annyhow, I sometimes think I know why they're arnychists somewhere, an' why they ain't in other places. It minds me iv what happened wanst in me cousin Terence's fam'ly. They was livin' down near Healey's slough in wan iv thim ol' Doherty's houses,—not Doherty that ye know, th' j'iner, a good man whin he don't dhrink. No, 'twas an ol' grouch iv a man be th' name iv Malachi Doherty that used to keep five-day notices in his thrunk, an' ownded his own privit justice iv th' peace. Me cousin Terence was as dacint a man as iver shoed a hor-rse; an his wife was a good woman, too, though I niver took much to th' Dolans. Fr'm Tipperary, they was, an' too handy throwin' things at ye. An' he had a nice fam'ly growin' up, an' I niver knowed people that lived together more quite an' amyable. 'Twas good f'r to see thim settin' ar-roun' th' parlor,—Terence spellin' out th' newspaper, an' his good woman mendin' socks, an' Honoria playin' th' 'Vale iv Avoca' on th' pianny, an' th' kids r-rowlin' on th' flure.

"But wan day it happened that that whole fam'ly begun to rasp on wan another. Honoria'd set down at th' pianny, an' th' ol' man'd growl: 'F'r th' love iv th' saints, close down that hurdy-gurdy, an' lave a man injye his headache!' An' th' good woman scolded Terence, an' th' kids pulled th' leg fr'm undher th' stove; an', whin th' big boy Mike come home fr'm Omaha, he found none iv thim speakin' to th' others. He cud do nawthin', an' he wint f'r Father Kelly. Father Kelly sniffed th' air whin he come in; an' says he, 'Terence, what's th' matther with ye'er catch basin?' 'I dinnaw,' growled Terence. 'Well,' says Father Kelly, 'ye put on ye'er hat this minyit, an' go out f'r a plumber,' he says. 'I'm not needed here,' he says. 'Ye'er sowls ar-re all r-right,' he says; 'but ye'er systems ar-re out iv ordher,' he says. 'Fetch in a plumber,' he says, 'whilst I goes down to Doherty, an' make him think his lease on th' hereafther is defective,' he says."

"Ye're right," said Mr. Hennessy, who had followed the argument dimly.

"Iv coorse I'm right," said Mr. Dooley. "What they need over there in furrin' counthries is not a priest, but a plumber. 'Tis no good prayin' again arnychists, Hinnissy. Arnychists is sewer gas."

ON THE DREYFUS CASE.

"I see be th' pa-apers," said Mr. Dooley, "that Col. Hinnery, th' man that sint me frind Cap. Dhry-fuss to th' cage, has moved on. I suppose they'll give th' Cap a new thrile now."

"I hope they won't," said Mr. Hennessy. "I don't know annything about it, but I think he's guilty. He's a Jew."

"Well," said Mr. Dooley, "ye'er thoughts on this subject is inthrestin', but not conclusive, as Dorsey said to th' Pollack that thought he cud lick him. Ye have a r-right to ye'er opinyon, an' ye'll hold it annyhow, whether ye have a r-right to it or not. Like most iv ye'er fellow-citizens, ye start impartial. Ye don't know annything about th' case. If ye knew annything, ye'd not have an opinyon wan way or th' other. They'se niver been a matther come up in my time that th' American people was so sure about as they ar-re about th' Dhryfliss case. Th' Frinch ar-re not so sure, but they'se not a polisman in this counthry that can't tell ye jus' where Dhry-russ was whin th' remains iv th' poor girl was found. That's because th' thrile was secret. If 'twas an open thrile, an' ye heerd th' tistimony, an' knew th' language, an' saw th' safe afther 'twas blown open, ye'd be puzzled, an' not care a rush whether Dhry-fuss was naked in a cage or takin' tay with his uncle at th' Benny Brith Club.

"I haven't made up me mind whether th' Cap done th' shootin' or not. He was certainly in th' neighborhood whin th' fire started, an' th' polis dug up quite a lot iv lead pipe in his back yard. But it's wan thing to sus-pect a man iv doin' a job an' another thing to prove that he didn't. Me frind Zola thinks he's innocint, an' he raised th' divvle at th' thrile. Whin th' judge come up on th' bench an' opined th' coort, Zola was settin' down below with th' lawyers. 'Let us pro-ceed,' says th' impartial an' fair-minded judge, 'to th' thrile iv th' haynious monsther Cap Dhry-fuss,' he says. Up jumps Zola, an' says he in Frinch: 'Jackuse,' he says, which is a hell of a mane thing to say to anny man. An' they thrun him out. 'Judge,' says th' attorney f'r th' difinse, 'an' gintlemen iv th' jury,' he says. 'Ye're a liar,' says th' judge. 'Cap, ye're guilty, an' ye know it,' he says. 'Th' decision iv th' coort is that ye be put in a cage, an' sint to th' Divvle's own island f'r th' r-rest iv ye'er life,' he says. 'Let us pro-ceed to hearin' th' tistimony,' he says. 'Call all th' witnesses at wanst,' he says, 'an' lave thim have it out on th' flure,' he says. Be this time Zola has come back; an' he jumps up, an', says he, 'Jackuse,' he says. An' they thrun him out.

"'Befure we go anny farther,' says th' lawyer f'r th' difinse, 'I wish to sarve notice that, whin this thrile is over, I intind,' he says, 'to wait outside,' he says, 'an' hammer th' hon'rable coort into an omelet,' he says. 'With these few remarks I will close,' he says. 'Th' coort,' says th' judge, 'is always r-ready to defind th' honor iv France,' he says; 'an', if th' larned counsel will con-sint,' he says, 'to step up here f'r a minyit,' he says, 'th' coort'll put a sthrangle hold on him that'll not do him a bit iv good,' he says. 'Ah!' he says. 'Here's me ol' frind Pat th' Clam,' he says. 'Pat, what d'ye know about this case?' he says. 'None iv ye'er business,' says Pat. 'Answered like a man an' a sojer,' says th' coort. 'Jackuse,' says Zola fr'm th' dureway. An' they thrun him out. 'Call Col. Hinnery,' says th' coort. 'He ray-fuses to answer.' 'Good. Th' case is clear. Cap forged th' will. Th' coort will now adjourn f'r dools, an' all ladin' officers iv th' ar-rmy not in disgrace already will assimble in jail, an' com-mit suicide,' he says. 'Jackuse,' says Zola, an' started f'r th' woods, pursued be his fellow-editors. He's off somewhere in a three now hollerin' 'Jackuse' at ivry wan that passes, sufferin' martyrdom f'r his counthry an' writin' now an' thin about it all.

"That's all I know about Cap Dhry-fuss' case, an' that's all anny man knows. Ye didn't know as much, Hinnissy, till I told ye. I don't know whether Cap stole th' dog or not."

"What's he charged with?" Mr. Hennessy asked, in bewilderment.

"I'll niver tell ye," said Mr. Dooley. "It's too much to ask."

"Well, annyhow," said Mr. Hennessy, "he's guilty, ye can bet on that."

ON THE DECADENCE OF GREECE.

"That young Hogan is a smart la-ad," said Mr. Dooley. "A smart la-ad an' a good wan, too."

"None betther," said Mr. Hennessy.

"None betther in th' ward," said Mr. Dooley, which was a high appreciation. "But there ar-re things about human nature an' histhry that ain't taught at Saint Ignateeus'. I tell thim to Hogan's la-ad.

"He was walkin' be th' store wan day las' week, an' I ast him how th' wa-ar wint. 'Tis sthrange, with churches two in a block, an' public schools as thick as lamp-posts, that, whin a man stops ye on th' sthreet, he'll ayether ast ye th' scoor iv th' base-ball game or talk iv th' Greek war with ye. I ain't seen annything that happened since Parnell's day that's aroused so much enthusyasm on th' Ar-rchey Road as th' Greek war. 'How goes th' war?' says I to young Hogan, 'How goes the war between th' ac-cursed infidel an' th' dog iv a Christian?' I says. 'It goes bad,' he says. 'Th' Greeks won a thremenjous battle, killin' manny millions iv th' Moslem murdherers, but was obliged to retreat thirty-two miles in a gallop.' 'Is that so?' says I. 'Sure that seems to be their luck,' I says. 'Whin-iver they win, they lose; an', whin they lose, they lose,' I says. 'What ails thim?' I says. 'Is th' riferee again thim?' 'I can't make it out,' he says, while a tear sthud in his eye. 'Whin I think iv Leonidas at th' pass iv Thermometer,' he says, 'an' So-an'-so on th' field iv Marathon an' This-or-that th' Spartan hero,' he says, 'I cannot undherstand f'r th' life iv me why th' Greeks shud have been dhruv fr'm pillar to post be an ar-rmy iv slaves. Didn't Leonidas, with hardly as manny men as there are Raypublicans in this precint, hold th' pass again a savage horde?' he says. 'He did,' says I. 'He did.' 'An' didn't What's-his-name on th' field iv Marathon overcome an' desthroy th' ravagin' armies iv Persia?' he says. 'Thrue f'r ye,' says I. 'There's no doubt in th' wurruld about it,' I says. 'An' look at Alexander th' Great,' he says. 'Aleck was a turror, an' no mistake,' says I. 'An' Miltiades,' he says. 'I on'y know what I hear iv him,' says I. 'But fr'm all accounts he must have been consid'rable iv a fellow,' says I. 'An' in later days Marco Boozaris,' he says. 'He was th' man that come in con-sumption's dreaded form,' says I, 'an' he was afraid iv no man.' 'Well, thin,' says he, 'how ar-re we to account f'r this disgrace?' he says.

"'Well,' says I, 'd'ye raymimber th' fightin' tenth precint? Ye must've heerd ye'er father tell about it. It was famous f'r th' quality an' quantity iv th' warfare put up in it. Ivry man in th' tenth precint cud fight his weight in scrap-iron. Most iv thim come fr'm th' ancient Hellenic province iv May-o; but they was a fair sprinklin' iv Greek heroes fr'm Roscommon an' Tipperary, an' a few from th' historic spot where th' Head iv Kinsale looks out on th' sea, an' th' sea looks up at th' Head iv Kinsale. Th' little boys cud box befure they was out iv skirts. Far an' wide, th' tenth precint was th' turror iv its inimies. Ye talk about Leonidas an' th' pass iv Thermometer. Ye ought to've seen Mike Riordan an' his fam'ly defindin' th' pollin'-place whin Eddie Burke's brigade charged it wan fine day. That hero sthud f'r