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Arnychists is sewer gas." "I see be th' pa-apers," said Mr. Dooley, "that Col. Hinnery, th' man that sint me frind Cap. Dhry-fuss to th' cage, has moved on. I suppose they'll give th' Cap a new thrile now." "I hope they won't," said Mr. Hennessy. "I don't know annything about it, but I think he's guilty. He's a Jew." "Well," said Mr.
'Let us pro-ceed, says th' impartial an' fair-minded judge, 'to th' thrile iv th' haynious monsther Cap Dhry-fuss, he says. Up jumps Zola, an' says he in Frinch: 'Jackuse, he says, which is a hell of a mane thing to say to anny man. An' they thrun him out. 'Judge, says th' attorney f'r th' difinse, 'an' gintlemen iv th' jury, he says. 'Ye're a liar, says th' judge.
If 'twas an open thrile, an' ye heerd th' tistimony, an' knew th' language, an' saw th' safe afther 'twas blown open, ye'd be puzzled, an' not care a rush whether Dhry-fuss was naked in a cage or takin' tay with his uncle at th' Benny Brith Club. "I haven't made up me mind whether th' Cap done th' shootin' or not.
Harper's monymental histhry iv th' Jewish thribes fr'm Moses to Dhry-fuss' or 'Ivrybody is r-readin' Roodyard Kiplin's "Busy Pomes f'r Busy People." Th' idee iv givin' books f'r Christmas prisints whin th' stores are full iv tin hor-rns an' dhrums an' boxin' gloves an choo-choo ca-ars! People must be crazy." "They ar-re," said Mr. Hennessy.
"That's all I know about Cap Dhry-fuss' case, an' that's all anny man knows. Ye didn't know as much, Hinnissy, till I told ye. I don't know whether Cap stole th' dog or not." "What's he charged with?" Mr. Hennessy asked, in bewilderment. "I'll niver tell ye," said Mr. Dooley. "It's too much to ask." "Well, annyhow," said Mr. Hennessy, "he's guilty, ye can bet on that."
They start out down th' street, loaded up with obscenthe an' cigareets, pavin' blocks an' walkin' sthicks an' shtove lids in their hands, cryin', 'A base Cap Dhry-fuss! th' cap bein' far off in a cage, by dad. So far, so good. 'A base Cap Dhry-fuss! says I; 'an' the same to all thraitors, an' manny iv thim, whether they ar-re or not. But along comes a man with a poor hat.
'He's a thraitor, says a third. 'A base th' soup kitchen! A base th' caafe! says they; an' they seize th' unfortunate Duclose, an' bate him an' upset his kettles iv broth. Manetime where's Cap Dhry-fuss? Off in his comfortable cage, swingin' on th' perch an' atin' seed out iv a small bottle stuck in th' wire.
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