"
"Yes," said Mr. McKenna, "I see even the aldhermen has come to the
front, offering relief."
"Well," said Mr. Dooley, thoughtfully, "I on'y hope they won't go to
Saint Looey to disthri-bute it thimsilves. That would be a long sight
worse thin th' cyclone."
THE IRISHMAN ABROAD.
Mr. Dooley laid down his morning paper, and looked thoughtfully at the
chandeliers.
"Taaffe," he said musingly,--"Taaffe--where th' divvle? Th' name's
familiar."
"He lives in the Nineteenth," said Mr. McKenna. "If I remember right,
he has a boy on th' force."
"Goowan," said Mr. Dooley, "with ye'er nineteenth wa-ards. Th' Taaffe
I mane is in Austhria. Where in all, where in all? No: yes, by gar, I
have it. A-ha!
"But cur-rsed be th' day,
Whin Lord Taaffe grew faint-hearted
An sthud not n'r cha-arged,
But in panic depa-arted."
"D'ye mind it,--th' pome by Joyce? No, not Bill Joyce. Joyce, th' Irish
pote that wrote th' pome about th' wa-ars whin me people raysisted
Cromwell, while yours was carryin' turf on their backs to make fires
for th' crool invader, as Finerty says whin th' sub-scriptions r-runs
low.
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