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Afther that well, I on'y say that, though pollytics is a gran' career f'r a man, 'tis a tough wan f'r his wife." "If a man come into this saloon " Mr. Hennessy was saying. "This ain't no saloon," Mr. Dooley interrupted. "This is a resthrant." "A what?" Mr. Hennessy exclaimed. "A resthrant," said Mr. Dooley. "Ye don't know, Hinnissy, that liquor is food. It is though. Food an' dhrink.
"Ah," said Mr. Hennessy, the simple democrat. "It wud be all r-right if women'd do their own cookin'." "Well," said Mr. Dooley. "'Twud be a return to Jacksonyan simplicity, an' 'twud be a gr-reat thing f'r th' resthrant business." "It looks like war," said Mr. Hennessy, who had been glancing at the flaming head-lines of an evening paper over Mr. Dooley's shoulder. "It always does," said Mr.
They'd make thim ten thousand if they had their way an' mark thim: 'F'r men on'y. But, annyhow, th' ladies comity wint down to Washin'ton. They'd been there befure an' dhriven th' Demon Rum fr'm th' resthrant into a lair in th' comity room. A Congressman came out, coughin' behind his hand, an' put his handkerchief into th' northwest corner iv his coat.
A corryspondint iv th' Daily Saky, who wurruks in an old porcylain facthry in Maine, writes that this famous subjick iv th' Mickydoo, whose name has escaped him but who had a good job in a livery stable in Tokyo befure he was sint on a mission to th' American people to see what he cud get, wint into an all night resthrant an' demanded his threaty rights, which ar-re that th' waiter was to tuck his napkin into his collar an' th' bartinder must play "Nippon th' gloryous" on a mouth organ.
He r-run 'Th' Colored Supplimint, but it was a failure, th' taste iv th' public lanin' more to quadhroon publications, an' no man that owned a resthrant or theaytre or dhrygoods store'd put in an adver-tisemint f'r fear th' subscribers'd see it an' come ar-round. Thin he attimpted to go into pollytics, an' th' best he cud get was carryin' a bucket iv wather f'r a Lincoln Club.
But do ye think, man alive, that ye're goin' to do this be pourin' lard ile frim ye'er torch down ye'er spine or thrippin' over sthreet-car tracks like a dhray-horse thryin' to play circus? Is th' Constitution anny safer to-night because ye have to have ye'er leg amputated to get ye'er boot off, or because Joyce has made ye'er face look like th' back dure-step iv a German resthrant?
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