e says, 'an' Jawn Im Smyth,' he says,
'undher his heel?' he says. 'Arouse,' he says, 'slaves an' despots!'
he says. 'Clear th' way!' he says. 'Cowards an' thraitors!' he says.
'Faugh-a-ballagh!' he says. He had th' beer privilege at th' picnic,
Jawn.

"Hinnissy, th' plumber, who blew wan iv his fingers off with a bumb
intinded f'r some iv th' archytecture iv Liverpool, had th' conthract
f'r runnin' th' knock-th'-babby-down-an'-get-a-nice-seegar jint. F'r
th' good iv th' cause I knocked th' babby down, Jawn, an' I on'y wish
th' Queen iv England 'r th' Prince iv Wales cud be injooced to smoke
wan iv th' seegars. Ye might as well go again a Roman candle. Th' wan
I got was made iv baled hay, an' 'twas rumored about th' pa-ark that
Hinnissy was wurrukin' off his surplus stock iv bumbs on th'
pathrites. His cousin Darcey had th' shootin' gallery privilege, an'
he done a business th' like iv which was niver knowed be puttin' up
th' figure iv an Irish polisman f'r th' la-ads to shoot at. 'Twas bad
in th' end though, f'r a gang iv Tipp'rary lads come along behind th'
tent an' begun thrown stones at th' copper. Wan stone hit a Limerick
man, an' th' cry 'butthermilk' wint around; an' be hivins, if it
hadn't been that th' chief iv polis, th' wise la-ad, sint none but
German polismen to th' picnic, there 'd not been a man left to tell th'
tale."

"What's that all got to do with freeing Ireland?" asked Mr. McKenna.

"Well, 'tis no worse off thin it was befure, annyhow," said Mr.
Dooley.

THE IDLE APPRENTICE.

"They hanged a man to-day," said Mr. Dooley.

"They did so," said Mr. McKenna.

"Did he die game?"

"They say he did."

"Well, he did," said Mr. Dooley. "I read it all in th' pa-apers. He
died as game as if he was wan iv th' Christyan martyrs instead iv a
thief that 'd hit his man wan crack too much. Saint or murdherer, 'tis
little difference whin death comes up face front.

"I read th' story iv this man through, Jawn; an', barrin' th' hangin',
'tis th' story iv tin thousan' like him. D'ye raymimber th' Carey kid?
Ye do. Well, I knowed his grandfather; an' a dacinter ol' man niver
wint to his jooty wanst a month. Whin he come over to live down be th'
slip, 'twas as good a place as iver ye see. Th' honest men an' honest
women wint as they pleased, an' laid hands on no wan. His boy Jim was
as straight as th' r-roads in Kildare, but he took to dhrink; an',
whin Jack Carey was born, he was a thramp on th' sthre