An' he gathers his Archery
Club ar-round him, an' says he: 'Fellow-pathrites,' he says, 'we've
been betrayed,' he says. 'We've been sold out without,' he says,
'gettin' th' usual commission,' he says. 'We're still heroes,' he
says; 'an' our pitchers is in th' pa-apers,' he says. 'Go in,' he
says, 'an' sthrike a blow at th' gay deceivers,' he says. 'I'll sell
ye'er lives dearly,' he says. An' th' Archery Club wint in. Th'
pathrites wint up again a band iv Kansas sojers, that was wanst heroes
befure they larned th' hay-foot-sthraw-foot, an' is now arnin' th'
wages iv a good harvest hand all th' year ar-round, an' 'd rather
fight than ate th' ar-rmy beef, an' ye know what happened. Some iv th'
poor divvles iv heroes is liberated fr'm th' cares iv life; an' th'
r-rest iv thim is up in threes, an' wishin' they was home, smokin' a
good see-gar with mother.
"An' all this because Aggynaldoo didn't hear th' whistle blow. He
thought th' boom was still on in th' hero business. If he'd come in,
ye'd be hearin' that James Haitch Aggynaldoo 'd been appointed
foorth-class postmasther at Hootchey-Kootchey; but now th' nex' ye
know iv him 'll be on th' blotther at th' polis station: 'James Haitch
Aggynaldoo, alias Pompydoor Jim, charged with carryin' concealed
weepins an' ray-sistin' an officer.
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