shoots it into ye that he was wanst run over be th' Prince iv Wales, ye
have him groggy. I don't know whether th' Jook iv Argyle or th' Prince
iv Wales counts f'r most. They're like th' right an' left bower iv
thrumps. Th' best players is called scratch-men."

"What's that f'r?" Mr. Hennessy asked.

"It's a Scotch game," said Mr. Dooley, with a wave of his hand. "I
wonder how it come out to-day. Here's th' pa-aper. Let me see. McKinley
at Canton. Still there. He niver cared to wandher fr'm his own fireside.
Collar-button men f'r th' goold standard. Statues iv Heidelback,
Ickleheimer an' Company to be erected in Washington. Another Vanderbilt
weddin'. That sounds like goluf, but it ain't. Newport society livin' in
Mrs. Potther Pammer's cellar. Green-goods men declare f'r honest money.
Anson in foorth place some more. Pianny tuners f'r McKinley. Li Hung
Chang smells a rat. Abner McKinley supports th' goold standard. Wait a
minyit. Here it is: 'Goluf in gay attire.' Let me see. H'm. 'Foozled his
aproach,'--nasty thing. 'Topped th' ball.' 'Three up an' two to play.'
Ah, here's the scoor. 'Among those prisint were Messrs. an' Mesdames"--

"Hol' on!" cried Mr. Hennessy, grabbing the paper out of his friend's
hands. "That's thim that was there."

"Well," said Mr. Dooley, decisively, "that's th' goluf scoor."

ON THE FRENCH CHARACTER.

"Th' Fr-rinch," said Mr. Dooley, "ar-re a tumulchuse people."

"Like as not," said Mr. Hennessy, "there's some of our blood in thim. A
good manny iv our people wint over wanst. They cudden't all've been kilt
at Fontenoy."

"No," said Mr. Dooley, "'tis another kind iv tumulchuse. Whin an
Irishman rages, 'tis with wan idee in his mind. He's goin' for'ard again
a single inimy, an' not stone walls or irne chains'll stop him. He may
pause f'r a dhrink or to take a shy at a polisman,--f'r a polisman's
always in th' way,--but he's as thrue as th' needle in th' camel's eye,
as Hogan says, to th' objec' iv his hathred. So he's been f'r four
hundherd years, an' so he'll always be while they'se an England on th'
map. Whin England purrishes, th' Irish'll die iv what Hogan calls
ongwee, which is havin' no wan in the weary wurruld ye don't love.

"But with th' Fr-rinch 'tis diff'rent. I say 'tis diffrent with th'
Fr-rinch. They're an onaisy an' a thrubbled people. They start out down
th' street, loaded up with obscenthe an' cigareets, pavin' blocks an'
walkin' sthicks an' shtove lids in their