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'I thrust, she says, 'that all iv us has been long enough fr'm home to f'rget our despicable domestic struggles, she says, 'an' think on'y iv humanity, she says. An' whin she opens up th' shop f'r subscriptions ye'd think fr'm th' crowd that 'twas th' first night iv th' horse show.
An' he tuk some other la-ads, I f'rget their names, they wasn't heroes, annyhow, but was wurrukin' be th' day; an' he wint in in his undherclothes, so's not to spoil his suit, an' th' Castiles hurled death an' desthruction on him.
Feuerstein added the ten to the thirty and ordered more whisky. Dippel tried to doze, but he would not permit it. "He mustn't sleep any of it off," he thought. When the whisky came Dippel shook himself together and started up. "G'-night," he said, trying to stand, look and talk straight. "Don't f'rget, y'owe me ten dollarses no, two ten dollarses."
"Got lovely name," he averred eagerly. "Good ol' moth-eaten name. Name's Schuyler VanCourtlandt Van de Water ain't it Schuylie ain't that your name or's that mine? I I f'rget lil' things," he said in an explanatory manner. But the suicide spoke up for himself. "Tha's my name," he said aggressively. "Knew it in a minute.
This not bein' England an' th' inimy we have again us not bein' our frinds, we will f'rget th' gloryous thraditions iv th' English an' Soudan ar-rmies an' instead iv r-rushin' on thim sneak along yon kindly fence an' hit thim on th' back iv th' neck, they'd be less, 'I r-regret-to-states' and more 'I'm plazed-to-reports. They wud so, an' I'm a man that's been through columns an' columns iv war.
I had to hold on to me chair to keep fr'm goin' up in th' air, an' I mind that if it hadn't been f'r a crack on th' head ye got fr'm a dillygate fr'm Westconsin ye'd 've been in th' hair iv Gin'ral Bragg. Dear me, will ye iver f'rget it, th' way he pumped it into th' pluthocrats?
An' 'tis tin to wan they'se somethin' doin' at th' fun'ral that ye're sorry ye missed. That's life in America. Tis a gloryous big fight, a rough an' tumble fight, a Donnybrook fair three thousan' miles wide an' a ruction in ivry block. Head an' ban's an' feet an' th' pitchers on th' wall. No holds barred. Fight fair but don't f'rget th' other la-ad may not know where th' belt line is.
'Ye see th' prisident I f'rget his name has been asked to go to th' r-races with some frinds, he says; 'an' they will prob'bly thry to kill him, he says. 'We can't play anny fav'rites here, he says. 'We have to protect th' low as well as th' high, he says.
Thin there was wan that I see mintioned in th' war news wanst in a while, th' less we f'rget, th' more we raymimber. That was a hot pome an' a good wan. What I like about Kipling is that his pomes is right off th' bat, like me con-versations with you, me boy.
If ye cud tache thim to cook an' take care iv childher they'd be th' best servants, says I. 'An' what d'ye call thim"? says he. 'I f'rget, says I. An' he wint away mad." "Sure an' he's a nice man to be talkin' iv servants," said Mr. Hennessy. "He was a gintleman's man in th' ol' counthry an' I used to know his wife whin she wurruked f'r " "S-sh," said Mr. Dooley. "They're beyond that now.
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