"Ye've hit ut, Miss Dooley," returned the philosopher, with a beautiful enthusiasm. "Ye've hit ut square. I see now y're a thrue Dooley. An' wid yer kind permission I'll dedicate me book to ye. Ut's cocktails that book's about, ma'am. _Fifty Cocktails I Have Met_ is th' na-ame iv ut. An' whin I submitted th' mannyscrip' wid th' illusthrations to the publisher, he dhrank 'em all, an' he says, 'Dooley,' he says, 'ut's a go. I'll do yer book,' he says, 'an' I'll pay ye wan hoondred an' siventy-five per cent.,' he says. 'Set 'em up again, Dooley,' he says; an' I mixed 'em. 'I t'ink, Dooley,' he says, afther goin' troo th' illusthrations th' second toime--'I t'ink,' he says, 'ye'd ought to get two hoondred an' wan per cent. on th' retail price iv th' book,' he says. 'Can't I take a bottle iv these illusthrations to me office?' he says. 'I'd like to look 'em over,' he says; an' I mixed 'im up a quar-rt iv th' illusthrations to th' chapther on th' Mar-rtinney, an' sent him back to his partner in th' ambylanch." [Illustration: MIXING ILLUSTRATIONS] "I shall look forward to the publication of your book with much interest, Mr. Dooley," said Dolly. "Now that I have discovered our cousinship, I am even more interested in you than I was before; and let me tell you that, before I met you, I thought of you as the most vital figure in American humor that has been produced in many years." "I know nothin' iv American humor," said Dooley, "for I haven't met anny lately, an' I know nothin' iv victuals save what I ate, an' me appytite is as satisfoid wid itself as Hobson is wid th' kisses brawt onto him by th' sinkin' iv th' Merrimickinley. But for you an' Misther Rassendyll, ma'am, I've nothin' but good wishes an' ah--illusthrations to me book whenever ye give yer orders. Kape your hoosband home, Miss Dooley," he added. "He's scrapped wanst too often already wi' th' Ruraltarriers, an' he's been killed off wanst by Mr. Ant'ny Hawp; but he'll niver die if ye only kape him home. If he goes out he'll git fightin' agin. If he attimpts a sayquil to the sayquil, he's dead sure enough!" And with this Dolly and Dooley parted. For myself, Rupert Rassendyll, I think Dooley's advice was good, and as long as Dolly will keep me home, I'll stay. For is it not better to be the happy husband of Dolly of the Dialogues, than to be going about like a knight of the Middle Ages clad in the evening dress of the nineteenth century, doing impossible things? As for Dooley's impression of Dolly, I can only quote what I heard he had said after meeting her. "She's a Dooley sure," said he, being novel to compliment. And I am glad she is, for despite the charms of Flavia of pleasant memory, there's nobody like Dolly for me, and if Dolly can only be acknowledged by the Dooleys, her fame, I am absolutely confident, is assured. IX IN WHICH YELLOW JOURNALISM CREEPS IN