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"Well, sir, in twinty-eight minyits be th' clock Dewey he had all th' Spanish boats sunk, an' that there harbor lookin' like a Spanish stew. Thin he r-run down th' bay, an' handed a few war-rm wans into th' town. He set it on fire, an' thin wint ashore to war-rm his poor hands an' feet. It chills th' blood not to have annything to do f'r an hour or more." "Thin why don't he write something?" Mr.
"I seen big Doherty runnin' in a sojer to-day an' 'twas a fine sight. Th' sojer was fr'm th' County Kerry an' had a thrip an' Doherty is th' champeen catch-as-catch-can rassler iv Camp Twinty-eight. He had a little th' worst iv it, f'r he cud on'y get a neck holt, th' warryor havin' no slack to his pants, but he landed him at last. 'Twas gr-reat to see thim doin' a cart-wheel down th' sthreet."
A decree iv th' coort has got to be pretty vinrable befure I do more thin greet it with a pleasant smile. "Me idee was whin I read about Jawn D's fine that he'd settle at wanst, payin' twinty-eight millyon dollars in millyon dollar bills an' th' other millyon in chicken-feed like ten thousand dollar bills just to annoy th' clerk. But I ought to've known betther.
The submarine engineers of London tell us they limit a man to twenty-five fathom, an' they ought to know what's possible if any one should." "That's true, David," remarked Rooney, as he filled his pipe, "but I've heard of a man goin' down twinty-eight fathom, an' comin' up alive."
All Paris awaits ye, sire." "'Make th' sleeves a little longer thin this, says th' boy. 'An' fill out th' shouldhers. What proof have I?" "'Wan or two inside pockets? says th' tailor. 'Two insides. Hankerchief pocket? Wan hankerchief. Th' pants is warn much fuller this year. Make that twinty-eight instid iv twinty-siven, he says. 'Paris shrieks f'r ye, he says. "'Proof, says th' la-ad.
Iv coorse, ye'll be pinched, f'r ye won't dare say where ye come fr'm; an' 'tis twinty-eight to wan, the odds again an Orangeman at a wake, that ye'll not know where ye're goin'." "Tut, tut," said Mr. McKenna, indifferently. "Ye may tut-tut till ye lay an egg," said Mr. Dooley, severely, "ye ol' hen; but 'tis so.
I've thought iv chapter twinty-eight: 'With wan blow iv his pen he laid low, but not much lower, Orpheus L. Jubb, th' well-known minichure painter who has taken up nature study.
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