mont or some other distant place, put on his coat, lay down his
shovel, an' go out, be hivins, alone. Well, his son goes an' jines th'
Sivinth Rig'mint; an', by gar, th' ol' man, not knowin' about th'
army, he's that proud that he sthruts up an' down th' sthreet with his
thumb in th' vest iv him an' give his son a new shovel, for they was
wurrukin' together on th' scow 'Odelia Ann.' Well, whin th' sthrike
come along, iv coorse th' scow unloaders quits; an' Dorgan an' th'
la-ad goes out together, because they're dhrawin' good wages an' th'
crick do be full iv men r-ready f'r to take their places.

"Well, Dorgan had th' divvle's own time paradin' up an' down an'
sindin' out ordhers to sthrike to ivry man he knowed of till th' la-ad
comes over las' Choosdah avenin', dhressed in his rigimintals with a
gun as long as a clothes-pole over his shoulder. 'Hughey,' said th'
father, 'you look very gran' to-night,' he says. 'Whose fun'ral ar-re
ye goin' to at this hour?' 'None but thim I makes mesilf,' says he.
'What d'ye mean?' says th' ol' man. 'I'm goin' over f'r to stand guard
in th' thracks,' says th' la-ad. Well, with that th' ol' man leaps up.
'Polisman,' he says. 'Polisman,' he says. 'Copper,' he says. 'Twas
on'y be Mrs. Dorgan comin' in an' quitein' th' ol' man with a chair
that hostilities was averted--as th' pa-apers says--right there an'
thin.

"Well, sir, will ye believe me, whin Dorgan wint over with th' mimbers
iv' th' union that night f'r to bur-rn something, there was me brave
Hughey thrampin' up an' down like a polisman on bate. Dorgan goes up
an' shakes his fist at him, an' th' la-ad gives him a jab with his
bayonet that makes th' poor ol' man roar like a bull. 'In th' name iv
th' people iv th' State iv Illinys,' he says, 'disperse,' he says, 'ye
riter,' he says; 'an', if ye don't go home,' he says, 'ye ol'
omadhon,' he says, 'I'll have ye thrun into jail,' he says.

"Dorgan haven't got over it yet. It dhruv him to a sick-bed."

BOYNE WATER AND BAD BLOOD.

"Jawn," said Mr. Dooley to Mr. McKenna, "what did th' Orangeys do
to-day?"

"They had a procession," said Mr. McKenna.

"Was it much, I dinnaw?"

"Not much."

"That's good," said Mr. Dooley. "That's good. They don't seem to be
gettin' anny sthronger, praise be! Divvle th' sthraw do I care f'r
thim. They niver harmed hair nor head iv me; an' they ain't likely to,
ayether, so long as th' R-road keeps th' way it is. Faith, 'twud be a
fine pot i