rvin'-knives in their pockets.

"Onaisy, as Hogan says, is th' head that wears a crown. 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
privi