“That's where ye're wrong,” Mr. Dooley replied. “Take money annywhere ye find it. I'd take money f'rm England, much as I despise that formerly haughty but now dejected land, if I cud get anny from there. An' whin ye come down to it, I dinnaw as I blame Willum Waldorf Asthor f'r shiftin' his allegiance. Ivry wan to his taste as th' man said whin he dhrank out iv th' fire extinguisher. It depinds on how ye feel. If ye ar-re a tired la-ad an' wan without much fight in ye, livin' in this counthry is like thryin' to read th' Lives iv the Saints at a meetin' iv th' Clan-na-Gael. They'se no quiet f'r annybody. They's a fight on ivry minyit iv th' time. Ye may say to ye'ersilf: 'I'll lave these la-ads roll each other as much as they plaze, but I'll set here in th' shade an' dhrink me milk punch, but ye can't do it. Some wan 'll say, 'Look at that gazabo settin' out there alone. He's too proud f'r to jine in our simple dimmycratic festivities. Lave us go over an' bate him on th' eye.' An' they do it. Now if ye have fightin' blood in ye'er veins ye hastily gulp down yeer dhrink an' hand ye'er assailant wan that does him no kind iv good, an' th' first thing ye know ye're in th thick iv it an' its scrap, scrap, scrap till th' undhertaker calls f'r to measure ye. An' 'tis tin to wan they'se somethin' doin' at th' fun'ral that ye're sorry ye missed. That's life in America. Tis a gloryous big fight, a rough an' tumble fight, a Donnybrook fair three thousan' miles wide an' a ruction in ivry block. Head an' ban's an' feet an' th' pitchers on th' wall. No holds barred. Fight fair but don't f'rget th' other la-ad may not know where th' belt line is. No polisman in sight. A man's down with twinty on top iv him wan minyit. Th' next he's settin' on th' pile usin' a base-ball bat on th' neighbor next below him. 'Come on, boys, f'r 'tis growin' late, an' no wan's been kilt yet. Glory be, but this is th' life!' “Now, if I'm tired I don't want to fight. A man bats me in th' eye an' I call f'r th' polis. They isn't a polisman in sight. I say to th' man that poked me: 'Sir, I fain wud sleep.' 'Get up,' he says, 'an' be doin',' he says. 'Life is rale, life is earnest,' he says, 'an' man was made to fight,' he says, fetchin' me a kick. An' if I'm tired I say, 'What's th' use? I've got plenty iv money in me inside pocket. I'll go to a place where they don't know how to fight. I'll go where I can get something but an argymint f'r me money an' where I won't have to rassle with th' man that bates me carpets, ayether,' I says, 'f'r fifty cints overcharge or good govermint,' I says. An' I pike off to what Hogan calls th' effete monarchies iv Europe an' no wan walks on me toes, an' ivry man I give a dollar to becomes an acrobat an' I live comfortably an' die a markess! Th' divvle I do! “That's what I was goin' to say,” Mr. Hennessy remarked. “Ye wudden't live annywhere but here.”