"I--I dinnaw," said Mr. Hennessy, whose dreaming had not gone this far. Then, recovering himself, he exclaimed with great enthusiasm, "I'd throw up me job an'--an' live like a prince." "I tell ye what ye'd do," said Mr. Dooley. "Ye'd come back here an' sthrut up an' down th' sthreet with ye'er thumbs in ye'er armpits; an' ye'd dhrink too much, an' ride in sthreet ca-ars. Thin ye'd buy foldin' beds an' piannies, an' start a reel estate office. Ye'd be fooled a good deal an' lose a lot iv ye'er money, an' thin ye'd tighten up. Ye'd be in a cold fear night an' day that ye'd lose ye'er fortune. Ye'd wake up in th' middle iv th' night, dhreamin' that ye was back at th' gas-house with ye'er money gone. Ye'd be prisidint iv a charitable society. Ye'd have to wear ye'er shoes in th' house, an' ye'er wife'd have ye around to rayciptions an' dances. Ye'd move to Mitchigan Avnoo, an' ye'd hire a coachman that'd laugh at ye. Ye'er boys'd be joods an' ashamed iv ye, an' ye'd support ye'er daughters' husbands. Ye'd rackrint ye'er tinants an' lie about ye'er taxes. Ye'd go back to Ireland on a visit, an' put on airs with ye'er cousin Mike. Ye'd be a mane, close-fisted, onscrupulous ol' curmudgeon; an', whin ye'd die, it'd take haf ye'er fortune f'r rayqueems to put ye r-right. I don't want ye iver to speak to me whin ye get rich, Hinnissy." "I won't," said Mr. Hennessy. LOVE SONNETS OF A HOODLUM BY WALLACE IRWIN I Say, will she treat me white, or throw me down, Give me the glassy glare, or welcome hand, Shovel me dirt, or treat me on the grand, Knife me, or make me think I own the town? Will she be on the level, do me brown, Or will she jolt me lightly on the sand, Leaving poor Willie froze to beat the band, Limp as your grandma's Mother Hubbard gown? I do not know, nor do I give a whoop, But this I know: if she is so inclined She can come play with me on our back stoop, Even in office hours, I do not mind-- In fact I know I'm nice and good and ready To get an option on her as my steady. VIII I sometimes think that I am not so good, That there are foxier, warmer babes than I, That Fate has given me the calm go-by And my long suit is sawing mother's wood. Then would I duck from under if I could, Catch the hog special on the jump and fly To some Goat Island planned by destiny For dubs and has-beens and that solemn brood. But spite of bug-wheels in my cocoa tree, The trade in lager beer is still a-humming, A schooner can be purchased for a V Or even grafted if you're fierce at bumming. My finish then less clearly do I see, For lo! I have another think a-coming. IX