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'Topped th' ball. 'Three up an' two to play. Ah, here's the scoor. 'Among those prisint were Messrs. an' Mesdames" "Hol' on!" cried Mr. Hennessy, grabbing the paper out of his friend's hands. "That's thim that was there." "Well," said Mr. Dooley, decisively, "that's th' goluf scoor." "Th' Fr-rinch," said Mr. Dooley, "ar-re a tumulchuse people." "Like as not," said Mr.
Hennessy, "there's some of our blood in thim. A good manny iv our people wint over wanst. They cudden't all've been kilt at Fontenoy." "No," said Mr. Dooley, "'tis another kind iv tumulchuse. Whin an Irishman rages, 'tis with wan idee in his mind. He's goin' for'ard again a single inimy, an' not stone walls or irne chains'll stop him.
Th' rayciption that this here sintimint has rayceived fr'm ivry wan that has a son in colledge is almost tumulchuse. We feel like a long-lost brother that's been settin' outside in th' cold f'r a week, an' is now ast in to supper an' sarched at th' dure f'r deadly weepins. We'll have to set up sthraight an' mind our manners.
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