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The laundress hurdled the ambiguous pronouns like a thoroughbred. "Is it th' trut' ye're tellin' me?" she demanded, forgetting her graces, and grounding her saucer with a clatter. "Cross me hear-rt," said the housemaid, enjoying her sensation. "Ye'll excuse me intherruptin' " "Ye're no intherruptin'. 'Tis th' ind iv th' shtory." "But phat did th' good ma-an say?"

An' th' best iv it is, we know we ar-re." "Iv coorse, he's Irish," said Mr. Dooley. "Th' Fitz-Hughs an' th' McHughs an' th' McKeoughs is not far apart. I have a cousin be th' name iv McKeough, an' like as not th' gin'ral is a relation iv mine." "If I was you, I'd write him an' see," said Mr. Hennessy. "He's a gr-reat ma-an." "He is so," said Mr. Dooley. "He is that. Wan iv th' gr-reatest.

"I wint out last Choosdah, an' I suppose I must 've freed as much as eight counties in Ireland. All th' la-ads was there. Th' first ma-an I see was Dorgan, the sanyor guarjeen in the Wolfe Tone Lithry Society. He's th' la-ad that have made th' Prince iv Wales thrimble in his moccasins.

But 'tis th' divvle's own hardship f'r a coon to step out iv th' rooms iv th' S'ciety f'r th' Brotherhood iv Ma-an where he's been r-readin' a pome on th' 'Future of th' Moke' an' be pursooed be a mob iv abolitionists till he's dhriven to seek polis protection, which, Hinnissy, is th' polite name f'r fracture iv th' skull. "I was f'r sthrikin' off th' shackles iv th' slave, me la-ad.

"Please give the Riders the tent equipment to carry and assist them to lash the stuff on. Everything else has gone forward." "All right, old ma-an. Can't give me five minutes for a cat-nap, can you?" begged Hippy. "Turn out!" Hippy yawned and got up.

Dooley, "'tis a bad night out, an' th' poor divvle looked that miserable it brought th' tears to me eyes, an'" "But," said Mr. McKenna, "that ain't any reason why you should give half a dollar to every tramp who comes in." "Jawn," said Mr. Dooley, "I know th' ma-an. He spinds all his money at Schneider's, down th' block." "What of that?" asked Mr. McKenna. "Oh, nawthin'," said Mr.

Whin he's hot, I bet ye his face looks like a fire in a furniture facthry. Whin a ma-an goes pale with r-rage, look out f'r a knife in th' back. But, whin he flames up so that th' perspi-ration sizzles on his brow, look out f'r hand an' feet an' head an' coupling pins an' rapid-firin' guns. Fitz can be ca'm whin they'se annything to be ca'm about, but he can't wait.

No money's comin' in. Th' circus has moved on to th' nex' town, an' left him without a customer. Th' Jew man that loaned him th' bank-roll threatens to seize th' ca-ards on' th' table. Whin, lo an' behold, down th' sthreet comes a ma-an fr'm th' counthry, a lawyer fr'm Ohio, with a gripsack in his hand. Oh, but he's a proud man.

He's been in town long enough f'r to get out iv th' way iv th' throlley ca-ar whin th' bell rings. He's larned not to thry an' light his see-gar at th' ilicthric light. He doesn't offer to pay th' ilivator ma-an f'r carryin' him upstairs. He's got so he can pass a tall buildin' without thryin' f'r to turn a back summersault. An' he's as haughty about it as a new man on an ice-wagon.

"Me 'ant to see mammy!" she cried the child was unusually slow of speech for her age. "Dey 'on't 'et Ma-an do upstairs." "Cobbler" Horn took the child upon his knee, and gently stroked the small dusky head. "Mammy is very ill, Marian," he said gently. "Me 'ant to see mammy," was the emphatic response. "By and bye, darling," replied the father huskily.