s
name?' She told me, an' I seen she was Casey's wife; 'He's in there,'
I says. 'In back,' I says, 'talking to Doolan, th' prolotoorio.' I
wint back with her, an' there was Casey whalin' away. 'Ar-re ye men or
ar-re ye slaves?' he says to Doolan. 'Julius,' says his wife, 'vat ye
doin' there, ye blackgaard,' she says. 'Comin' ze, or be hivens I'll
break ye'er jaw,' she says. Well, sir, he turned white, an' come over
as meek as a lamb. She grabbed him be th' arm an' led him off, an'
'twas th' last I seen iv him.

"Afther a while Doolan woke up, an' says he, 'Where's me frind?'
'Gone,' says I. 'His wife came in, an' hooked him off.' 'Well,' says
Doolan, ''tis on'y another victhry iv the rulin' classes,' he says."

THE OPTIMIST.

"Aho," said Mr. Dooley, drawing a long, deep breath. "Ah-ho, glory be
to th' saints!"

He was sitting out in front of his liquor shop with Mr. McKenna, their
chairs tilted against the door-posts. If it had been hot elsewhere,
what had it been in Archey Road? The street-car horses reeled in the
dust from the tracks. The drivers, leaning over the dash-boards,
flogged the brutes with the viciousness of weakness. The piles of coke
in the gas-house yards sent up waves of heat like smoke. Even the
little girls playing on the sidewalks were flaming pink in color. But
the night saw Archey Road out in all gayety, its flannel shirt open at
the breast to the cooling blast and the cries of its children filling
the air. It also saw Mr. Dooley luxuriating like a polar bear, and
bowing cordially to all who passed.

"Glory be to th' saints," he said, "but it's been a thryin' five days.
I've been mean enough to commit murdher without th' strength even to
kill a fly. I expect to have a fight on me hands; f'r I've insulted
half th' road, an' th' on'y thing that saved me was that no wan was
sthrong enough to come over th' bar. 'I cud lick ye f'r that, if it
was not so hot,' said Dorsey, whin I told him I'd change no bill f'r
him. 'Ye cud not,' says I, 'if 'twas cooler,' I says. It's cool enough
f'r him now. Look, Jawn dear, an' see if there's an ice-pick undher me
chair.

"It 'd be more thin th' patience iv Job 'd stand to go through such
weather, an' be fit f'r society. They's on'y wan man in all th'
wurruld cud do it, an' that man's little Tim Clancy. He wurruks out in
th' mills, tin hours a day, runnin' a wheelbarrow loaded with
cindhers. He lives down beyant. Wan side iv his house is up again a
br