“Oh,” said Mr. Dooley, “he was in here las' night. 'How's our old frind Jawn?' says I. He said nawthin'. 'Have ye seen ye'er collidge chum iv late?' says I. 'Don't mintion that ma-an's name,' says he. 'To think iv what I've done f'r him,' he says, 'an' him to throw me down,' he says. 'Did ye play th' tip?' says I. 'I did,' says he. 'How did ye come out?' says I. 'I haven't a cint lift but me renommynation f'r th' ligislachure,' says he. 'Well,' says I, 'Cassidy,' I says, 'ye've been up again what th' pa-apers call hawt finance,' I says. 'What th' divvle's that?' says he. 'Well,' says I, 'it ain't burglary, an' it ain't obtainin' money be false pretinses, an' it ain't manslaughter,' I says. 'It's what ye might call a judicious seliction fr'm th' best features iv thim ar-rts,' I says. 'T'was too sthrong f'r me,' he says. 'It was,' says I. 'Ye're about up to simple thransom climbin', Cassidy,' I says.” THE PARIS EXPOSITION “If this r-rush iv people to th' Paris exposition keeps up,” said Mr. Hennessy, “they won't be enough left here f'r to ilict a prisidint.” “They'll be enough left,” said Mr. Dooley. “There always is. No wan has gone fr'm Arrchey r-road, where th' voters ar-re made. I've looked ar-round ivry mornin' expectin' to miss some familyar faces. I thought Dorgan, th' plumber, wud go sure, but he give it up at th' las' moment, an' will spind his summer on th' dhrainage canal. Th' baseball season 'll keep a good manny others back, an' a number iv riprisintative cit'zens who have stock or jobs in th' wire mills have decided that 'tis much betther to inthrust their savin's to John W. Gates thin to blow thim in again th' sthreets iv Cairo.” “But takin' it by an' large 'twill be a hard winter f'r th' r-rich. Manny iv thim will have money enough f'r to return, but they'll be much sufferin' among thim. I ixpict to have people dhroppin' in here nex' fall with subscription books f'r th' survivors iv th' Paris exhibition. Th' women down be th' rollin' mills 'll be sewin' flannels f'r th' disthressed millyonaires, an' whin th' childher kick about th' food ye'll say, Hinnissy, 'Just think iv th' poor wretches in th' Lake Shore dhrive an' thank Gawd f'r what ye have.' Th' mayor 'll open soup kitchens where th' unforchnit people can come an' get a hearty meal an' watch th' ticker, an' whin th' season grows hard, ye'll see pinched an' hungry plutocrats thrampin' th' sthreets with signs r-readin': 'Give us a cold bottle or we perish.' Perhaps th' polis 'll charge thim an' bust in their stovepipe hats, th' prisidint 'll sind th' ar-rmy here, a conspiracy 'll be discovered at th' club to blow up th' poorhouse, an' volunteers 'll be called on fr'm th' nickel bed houses to protect th' vested inthrests iv established poverty.”