"'High man,' says Flaherty. 'High man,' says Burke. Flaherty cut th'
king iv spades. Burke, th' robber, cut th' ace iv hearts. He was
reachin' out f'r th' money, whin Flaherty put his hands over it. 'Wud
ye take it?' says he. 'I wud,' says Burke. 'Wud ye rob th' church?'
says Flaherty. 'I wud,' says Burke. 'Thin,' says Flaherty, scoopin' it
in, 'ye're a heretic; an' they'se nawthin' comin' to ye.'
"Burke looked at him, an' he looked at th' comity; an' he says,
'Gintlemen, if iver ye come over in th' Sixth Ward, dhrop in an' see
me,' he says. 'I'll thry an' make it plisint f'r ye,' he says. An' he
wint away.
"Th' story got out, an' th' good man heerd iv it. He was mighty mad
about it; an' th' nex' sermon he preached was on th' evils iv
gamblin', but he asked Flaherty f'r to take up th' colliction."
THE WANDERERS.
"Poor la-ads, poor la-ads," said Mr. Dooley, putting aside his
newspaper and rubbing his glasses. "'Tis a hard lot theirs, thim that
go down into th' sea in ships, as Shakespeare says. Ye niver see a
storm on th' ocean? Iv coorse ye didn't. How cud ye, ye that was born
away fr'm home? But I have, Jawn. May th' saints save me fr'm another!
I come over in th' bowels iv a big crazy balloon iv a propeller, like
wan iv thim ye see hooked up to Dempsey's dock, loaded with lumber an'
slabs an' Swedes. We watched th' little ol' island fadin' away behind
us, with th' sun sthrikin' th' white house-tops iv Queenstown an'
lightin' up th' chimbleys iv Martin Hogan's liquor store. Not wan iv
us but had left near all we loved behind, an' sare a chance that we'd
iver spoon th' stirabout out iv th' pot above th' ol' peat fire again.
Yes, by dad, there was wan,--a lad fr'm th' County Roscommon. Divvle
th' tear he shed. But, whin we had parted fr'm land, he turns to me,
an' says, 'Well, we're on our way,' he says. 'We are that,' says I.
'No chanst f'r thim to turn around an' go back,' he says. 'Divvle th'
fut,' says I. 'Thin,' he says, raisin' his voice, 'to 'ell with th'
Prince iv Wales,' he says. 'To 'ell with him,' he says.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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