VII

THE END OF THE GLOOMSTERTHE END OF THE GLOOMSTER

“I’ve no doubt he disagreed with the cannibals,” sobbed the vicar, as he thought over the virtues of the deceased.

“None who ate him could escape appendicitis,” commented the Bishop, wiping a tear from his eye; “and, thank Heaven, the operation for that has yet to be invented. Those cannibals havebeen taken by this time from their wicked life.”

So it had gone on for ten generations. Cronky had been succeeded by his son and by his son’s son, and so on. To be Gloomster of the Isle of Man had by habit become the prerogative of the Gudehart family until the present, when Christian Goodheart found himself summoned before the Bishop to show cause why he should not be removed. Hitherto the Gloomster had given satisfaction. It would be hard to point to one of them—unless we except Eric Goodheart, the one who changed the name from Gudehart to Goodheart—who had not filled the island with that kind of sorrow that makes life seem hardly worth living. Eric Goodheart had once caught his father, “Bully Gudehart,” as he was called, in a moment of forgetfulness, doing a kindly act to a beggar at the door. A wanderer had appeared at the door of Nightmare Abbey in a starving condition, and Eric had surprised the Gloomster in the very act ofgiving the beggar a piece of apple-pie. The father found himself suddenly confronted by the round, staring eyes of his son, and he was frightened. If it were ever known that the Gloomster had done a kindly thing for anybody, he might be removed, and Bully Gudehart recognized the fact.

“Come here!” he cried brutally, to Eric, as the beggar marched away munching hungrily on the pie. “Come here, you brat! Do you hear? Comehere!” The boy was coming all the while. “You saw?”

“Yes, your Honor,” he replied, “I saw. The man said he was nearly dead with hunger, and you gave him food.”

“No,” roared the Gloomster, full of fear, for he knew how small boys prattle, “I did not give him food!I gave him pie!”

“All right, your Majesty,” the boy answered. “You gave him pie. And I see now why they call you Bully. For pie is bully, and nothing less.”

“My son,” the Gloomster responded, seizing a trunk-strap and whacking the lad with it forcefully, “you don’t understand.Do you know why I fed that man?”

“Because he was dying of hunger,” replied the lad, ruefully, rubbing his back where the trunk-strap had hit him.

“Precisely,” said the Gloomster. “If I hadn’t given him that pie he’d have died on the premises, and I can’t afford the expense of having a tramp die here. As it is, he will enjoy a lingering death.That was one of your mother’s pies.”

Eric ran sobbing to his room, but in his heart he believed that he had detected his father in a kindly act, and conceived that a Gloomster might occasionally relax. Nevertheless, when he succeeded to the office he was stern and unrelenting, in spite of the fact that occasionally there was to be detected in his eye a glance of geniality. This was doubtless due to the fact that from the time of his intrusion upon his father’s moment of weakness he was soundly thrashed every morning before breakfast, and spanked before retiring at night, as a preliminary to his prayers.

But Christian Goodheart, the present incumbent, had not given satisfaction, and his Bishop had summoned him to show cause why he should not be removed, and, as we have seen, the Gloomster had gone away broken-hearted. Shortly after having arrived at Nightmare Abbey he was greeted by his wife.

“Well, Christian,” she said, “what did the Bishop say?”

“He wants my resignation,” sighed Christian. “He says I have shown myself unworthy, and I fear he has evidence.”

“Evidence? Against you, my husband, the most disagreeable man in the isle?” cried his wife, fondly.

“Yes,” sighed Christian. “Do you remember, you old termagant, how, forgetting myself and my position, last Tuesday I laughed when Peter Skelly told us what his baby said to his nurse?”

“I do, Christian,” the good woman answered. “You laughed heartily, and I warned you to be careful. It is not theGloomster’s place to laugh, and I feared it might reach the Bishop’s ears.”

“It has done so,” sighed Christian, shaking his head sadly and wringing his hands in his agony. “It has reached the Bishop’s ears. Little Glory Grouse was passing by the door at the moment and saw me. Astonished, the child ran home and told her mother. ‘Mommer!’ she cried, ‘I have seen the Gloomster laugh! I have seen the Gloomster laugh!’ The child was cross-questioned, but stuck to her story until Mrs. Grouse was convinced, and told her neighbors, and these neighbors told other neighbors, until the story came to the ears of Canon Cashman, by whom it was conveyed to the Bishop himself.”

“What a little gossip that Glory Grouse is! She’ll come to a bad end, mark my words!” cried Mrs. Goodheart, angrily. “She’ll have her honored father’s name on the circus posters yet.”

“Do not blame the child,” said Christian, sadly. “She was right. Who hadever seen a Gloomster smile before? As well expect a ray of sunshine or a glimpse of humor in a Manx novel—”

“But the Bishop is not going to remove you for one false step, is he, Christian? He cannot do that, can he?” pleaded the woman.

“That is what I asked him,” Christian answered. “And he handed me a type-written memorandum of what he called my record. It seems that for six months they have been spying upon me. Read it for yourself.”

Mrs. Goodheart took the paper and read, with trembling hands:

“‘January 1, 1898—wished Peggy Meguire a happy New Year.’ Did you really, Christian?”

WISHED HER A HAPPY NEW-YEARWISHED HER A HAPPY NEW-YEAR

“I don’t remember doing so,” sighed the Gloomster. “If I did, it must have been in sarcasm, for I hate Peggy Meguire, and I am sure I wish her nothing of the sort. I told the Bishop so, but all he would say was, ‘Read on.’”

“‘February 23, 1898,’” Mrs. Goodheartcontinued, reading from the paper—“‘took off his coat and wrapped it about the shivering form of a freezing woman.’

“How very imprudent of you, Christian!” said his wife.

“But the Bishop didn’t know the circumstances,” said Christian. “It was the subtlest kind of deviltry, not humanity, that prompted the act. If I hadn’t given her my coat, the old lady would have frozen to death and been soon out of her misery. As it was, my wet coat saved her from an immediate surcease of sorrow, and, as I had foreseen, gave her muscular rheumatism of the most painful sort, from which she has suffered ever since.”

“You should have explained to the Bishop.”

“I did.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said my methods were too damned artistic.”

“What?” cried Mrs. Goodheart. “The Bishop?”

“Oh, well,” said Christian, “words tothat effect. He doesn’t appreciate the subtleties of gloom distinction. What he looks for is sheer brutality. Might as well employ an out-and-out desperado for the work. I like to infuse a little art into my work. I’ve tried to bring Gloomsterism up to the level of an art, a science. Slapping a man in the face doesn’t make him gloomy; it makes him mad. But subtlely infusing woe into his daily life, so that he doesn’t know whence all his trouble comes—ah! that is the perfect flower of the Gloomster’s work!”

“H’m!” said Mrs. Goodheart. “That’s well enough, Christian. If you are rich enough to consume your own product with profit, it’s all right to be artistic; but if you are dependent on a salary, don’t forget your consumer. What else have they against you?”

“Read on, woman,” said the Gloomster.

“‘April 1, 1898,’” the lady read. “‘Gave a half-crown to a starving beggar.’”

“That was another highly artistic act,” said Christian. “I told the Bishop that I had given the coin to the beggar knowing it to be counterfeit, and hoping that he would be arrested for trying to pass it. The Bishop cut me short by saying that my hope had not been fulfilled. It seems that that ass of a beggar bought some food with the half-crown, and the grocer who sold him the food put the counterfeit half-crown in the contribution-box the next Sunday, and the Church was stuck. That’s what I call hard luck.”

“Oh, well,” returned Mrs. Goodheart, putting the paper down in despair. “There’s no need to read further. That alone is sufficient to cause your downfall. When do you resign?”

“At once,” sighed Christian. “In fact, the Bishop had already written my resignation—which I signed.”

“And the land is without a Gloomster for the first time in five hundred years?” demanded Mrs. Goodheart.

“No,” said Christian, the tears coursingdown his nose. “The place is filled already, and by one who knows gloom only theoretically—a mere summer resident of the Isle of Man. In short, a famous London author has succeeded me.”

“His name!” cried Mrs. Goodheart.

“Just then,” said Snobbe, “I awoke, and did not catch the author’s name. It is a curious thing about dreams that just when you get to the crucial point you wake up.”

“I wonder who the deuce the chap could have been?” murmured the other diners. “Has any London author with a residence on the Isle of Man ever shown any acquaintance with gloom?”

“I don’t know for sure,” said Billy Jones. “But my impression is that it must be the editor ofPunch. What I am uncertain about is his residence on the Isle of Man. Otherwise I think he fills the bill.”

The pathetic tale of the Gloomster having been told and discussed, it turned out that Haarlem Bridge was the holder of the next ball in the sequence, the eighth. Haarley had been looking rather nervous all the evening, and two or three times he manifested some desire to withdraw from the scene. By order of the chairman, however, the precaution had been taken to lock all the doors, so that none of the Dreamers should escape, and, consequently, when the evil hour arrived, Haarley was perforce on hand.

He rose up reluctantly, and, taking a single page of manuscript from his pocket, after a few preliminary remarks that were no more nor less coherent than the averageafter-dinner speech, read the following lines, which he termed a magazine poem:

O ARGENT-BROWED SARCOPHAGUS“‘O ARGENT-BROWED SARCOPHAGUS’”

“O argent-browed Sarcophagus,That looms so through the ethered trees,Why dost thou seem to those of usWho drink the poisoned chalice on our kneesSo distant and so empyrean,So dour yet full of mystery?Hast thou the oracle as yet unseenTo guide thy fell misogyny?“Nay, let the spirit of the ageWith all its mystic beauty standTranslucent ever, aye, in spite the rageOf Cossack and of Samarcand!Thou art enough for any soul’s desire!Thou hast the beauty of cerulean fire!But we who grovel on the damask earthAre we despoilt of thy exigeant mirth?“Canst listen to a prayer, Sarcophagus?Indeed O art thou there, Sarcophagus?What time the Philistine denies,What time the raucous cynic cries,Avaunt, yet spare! Let this thy motto be,With thy thesaurian verbosity.Nor think that I, a caterpillian worm,Before thy glance should ever honk or squirm.“’Tis but the stern condition of the poorThat panting brings me pottering at thy door,To breathe of love and argent charityFor thee, for thee, iguanodonic thee!”

“That’s an excellent specimen of magazine poetry,” said Billy Jones. “But I observe, Haarley, that you haven’t given it a title. Perhaps if you gave it a title we might get at the mystery of its meaning. A title is a sort of Baedeker to the general run of magazine poems.”

Haarlem grew rather red of countenance as he answered, “Well, I didn’t exactly like to give it the title I dreamed; it didn’t seem to shed quite as much light on the subject as a title should.”

“Still, it may help,” said Huddy Rivers. “I read a poem in a magazine the other day on ‘Mystery.’ And if it hadn’t had a title I’d never have understood it. It ran this way:

“Life, what art thou? Whence springest thou?The past, the future, or the now?Whence comes thy lowering lunacy?Whence comes thy mizzling mystery?Hast thou a form, a shape, a lineament?Hast thou a single seraph-eyed medicamentTo ease our sorrow and our twitching woe?Hast thou one laudable Alsatian glowTo compensate, commensurate, and condignFor all these dastard, sleekish qualms of mine?Hast thou indeed an abject agate plotTo show that what exists is really not?Or art thou just content to sit and sayLife’s but a specious, coral roundelay?”

“I committed the thing to memory because it struck me as being a good thing to remember—it was so full of good phrases. ‘Twitching woe,’ for instance, and ‘sleekish qualms,’” he continued.

“Quaking qualms would have been better,” put in Tenafly Paterson, who judged poetry from an alliterative point of view.

“Nevertheless, I liked sleekish qualms,” retorted Huddy. “Quaking qualms might be more alliterative, but sleekish qualms islesscommonplace.”

“No doubt,” said Tenafly. “I never had ’em myself, so I’ll take your word forit. But what do you make out of ‘coral roundelay’?”

“Nothing at all,” said Huddy. “I don’t bother my head about ‘coral roundelay’ or ‘seraph-eyed medicament.’ I haven’t wasted an atom of my gray matter on ‘lowering lunacy’ or ‘agate plot’ or ‘mizzling mystery.’ And all because the poet gave his poem a title. He called the thing ‘Mystery,’ and when I had read it over half a dozen times I concluded that he was right; and if the thing remained a mystery to the author, I don’t see why a reader should expect ever to be able to understand it.”

“Very logical conclusion, Huddy,” said Billy Jones, approvingly. “If a poet chooses a name for his poem, you may make up your mind that there is good reason for it, and certainly the verses you have recited about the ‘coral roundelay’ are properly designated.”

“Well, I’d like to have the title of that yard of rhyme Haarlem Bridge just recited,” put in Dobbs Ferry, scratching hishead in bewilderment. “It strikes me as being quite as mysterious as Huddy’s. What the deuce can a man mean by referring to an ‘auburn-haired Sarcophagus’?”

“It wasn’t auburn-haired,” expostulated Haarlem. “It was argent-browed.”

“Old Sarcophagus had nickel-plated eyebrows, Dobby,” cried Tom Snobbe, forgetting himself for a moment.

“Well, who the dickens was old Sarcophagus?” queried Dobby, unappeased.

“He was one of the Egyptian kings, my dear boy,” vouchsafed Billy Jones, exploding internally with mirth. “You’ve heard of Augustus Cæsar, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” said Dobby.

SARCOPHAGUSTUS“SARCOPHAGUSTUS”

“Well,” explained Billy Jones, “Sarcophagus occupied the same relation to the Egyptians that Augustus did to the Romans—in fact, the irreverent used to call him Sarcophagustus, instead of Sarcophagus, which was his real name. This poem of Haarley’s is manifestly addressed to him.”

“Did he have nickel-plated eyebrows?” asked Bedfork Parke, satirically.

“No,” said Billy Jones. “As I remember the story of Sarcophagus as I read of him in college, he was a very pallid sort of a potentate—his forehead was white as marble. So they called him the Argent-browed Sarcophagus.”

“It’s a good thing for us we have Billy Jones with us to tell us all these things,” whispered Tom Snobbe to his brother Dick.

“You bet your life,” said Dick. “There’s nothing, after all, like a classical education. I wish I’d known it while I was getting mine.”

“What’s ‘fell misogyny’?” asked Tenafly Paterson, who seemed to be somewhat enamoured of the phrase. “Didn’t old Sarcophagus care for chemistry?”

“Chemistry?” demanded the chairman.

“That’s what I said,” said Tenny. “Isn’t misogyny a chemical compound of metal and gas?”

Tenny had been to the School of Minesfor two weeks, and had retired because he didn’t care for mathematics and the table at the college restaurant wasn’t good.

“I fancy you are thinking of heterophemy, which is an infusion of unorthodox gases into a solution of vocabulary particles,” suggested Billy Jones, grasping his sides madly to keep them from shaking.

“Oh yes,” said Tenny, “of course. I remember now.” Then he laughed somewhat, and added, “I always get misogyny and heterophemy mixed.”

“Who wouldn’t?” cried Harry Snobbe. “I do myself! There’s no chance to talk about either where I live,” he added. “Half the people don’t know what they mean. They’re not very anthropological up my way.”

“What’s a Samarcand?” asked Tenafly, again. “Haarley’s poem speaks of Cossack and of Samarcand. Of course we all know that a Cossack is a garment worn by the Russian peasants, but I never heard of a Samarcand.”

“It’s a thing to put about your neck,”said Dick Snobbe. “They wear ’em in winter out in Siberia. I looked it up some years ago.”

“Let’s take up ‘cerulean fire,’” said Bedford Parke, Tenafly appearing to be satisfied with Snobbe’s explanation.

“What’s ‘cerulean fire’?”

“Blue ruin,” said Huddy.

“And ‘damask earth’?” said Bedford.

“Easy,” cried Huddy. “Even I can understand that. Did you never hear, Beddy, of painting a town red? That’s damask earth in a small way. If you can paint a town red with your limited resources, what couldn’t a god do with a godlike credit? As I understand the poem, old Sarcophagus comes down out of the cerulean fire, and goes in for a little damask earth. That’s why the poet later says:

“‘Canst listen to a prayer, Sarcophagus?Indeed O art thou there, Sarcophagus?’

He wanted to pray to him, but didn’t know if he’d got back from damask earth yet.”

“You’re a perfect wonder, Huddy,” said Billy Jones. “As a thought-detector you are a beauty. I believe you’d succeed if you opened up a literary bureau somewhere and devoted your time to explaining Browning and Meredith and others to a mystified public.”

“’Tis an excellent idea,” said Tom Snobbe. “I’d really rejoice to see certain modern British masterpieces translated into English, and, with headquarters in Boston, the institution ought to flourish. Do worms honk?”

MR. BILLY JONESMR. BILLY JONES

“I never heard of any doing so,” replied the chairman, “but in these days it is hardly safe to say that anything is impossible. If you have watched the development of the circus in the last five years—I mean the real circus, not the literary—you must have observed what an advance intellectually has been made by the various members of the animal kingdom. Elephants have been taught to sit at table and dine like civilized beings on things that aren’t good for them; pigs have beeneducated so that, instead of evincing none but the more domestic virtues and staying contentedly at home, they now play poker with the sangfroid of a man about town; while the seal, a creature hitherto considered useful only in the production of sacques for our wives, and ear-tabs for our children, and mittens for our hired men, are now branching out as rivals to the college glee clubs, singing songs, playing banjoes, and raising thunder generally. Therefore it need surprise no one if a worm should learn to honk as high as any goose that ever honked. Anyhow, you can’t criticise a poet for anything of that kind. His license permits him to take any liberties he may see fit with existing conditions.”

“All of which,” observed Dick Snobbe, “is wandering from the original point of discussion. What is the meaning of Haarley’s poem? I can’t see that as yet we have reached a definite understanding on that point.”

“Well, I must confess,” said Jones,“that I can’t understand it myself; but I never could understand magazine poetry, so that doesn’t prove anything. I’m only a newspaper man.”

“Let’s have the title, Haarley,” cried Tenafly Paterson. “Was it called ‘Life,’ or ‘Nerve Cells,’ or what?”

For a second Bridge’s cheeks grew red.

“Oh, well, if you must have it,” he said, desperately, “here it is. It was called, ‘A Thought on Hearing, While Visiting Gibraltar in June, 1898, that the War Department at Washington Had Failed to Send Derricks to Cuba, Thereby Delaying the Landing of General Shafter Three Days and Giving Comfort to the Enemy.’”

“Great Scott!” roared Dick Snobbe. “What a title!”

“It is excellent,” said Billy Jones. “I now understand the intent of the poem.”

“Which was—?” asked Rivers.

“To supply a real hiatus in latter-day letters,” Jones replied; “to give the public a war poem that would make themthink, which is what a true war poem should do. Who has the ninth ball?”

“I am the unfortunate holder of that,” said Greenwich Place. “I’d just been reading Anthony Hope and Mr. Dooley. The result is a composite, which I will read.”

“What do you call it, Mr. Place?” asked the stenographer.

“Well, I don’t know,” replied Greenwich. “I guess ‘A Dooley Dialogue’ about describes it.”

Being the substance of a Dooley dialogue dreamed by Greenwich Place, Esq.

“I must see him,” said Dolly, rising suddenly from her chair and walking to the window. “I really must, you know.”

“Who?” I asked, rousing myself from the lethargy into which my morning paper had thrust me. It was not grammatical of me—I was somewhat under the influence of newspaper English—but Dolly is quick to understand. “Must see who?” I continued.

“Who indeed?” cried Dolly, gazing at me in mock surprise. “How stupid of you! If I went to Rome and said I must see him, you’d know I must mean thePope; if I went to Berlin and said I must see it, you’d know I meant the Emperor. Therefore, when I come to Chicago and say that I must see him, you ought to be able to guess that I mean—”

“Mr. Dooley?” I ventured, at a guess.

“Good for you!” cried Dolly, clapping her hands together joyously; and then she hummed bewitchingly, “The Boy Guessed Right the Very First Time,” until I begged her to desist. When Dolly claps her hands and hums, she becomes a vision of loveliness that would give the most confirmed misogynist palpitation of the heart, and I had no wish to die.

“Do you suppose I could call upon him without being thought too unconventional?” she blurted out in a moment.

“You can do anything,” said I, admiringly. “That is, with me to help,” I added, for I should be sorry if Dolly were to grow conceited. “Perhaps it would be better to have Mr. Dooley call upon you. Suppose you send him your card, and put‘at home’ on it? I fancy that would fetch him.”

“Happy thought!” said Dolly. “Only I haven’t one. In the excitement of our elopement I forgot to get any. Suppose I write my name on a blank card and send it?”

“Excellent,” said I.

And so it happened; the morning’s mail took out an envelope addressed to Mr. Dooley, and containing a bit of pasteboard upon which was written, in the charming hand of Dolly:

Mrs. R. Dolly-Rassendyll.At Home.The Hippodorium.Tuesday Afternoon.

I MUST SEE HIM“‘I MUST SEE HIM,’ SAID DOLLY”

The response was gratifyingly immediate.

The next morning Dolly’s mail contained Mr. Dooley’s card, which read as follows:

Mr. Dooley.At Work.Every Day. Archie Road.

“Which means?” said Dolly, tossing the card across the table to me.

“That if you want to see Dooley you’ll have to call upon him at his place of business. It’s a saloon, I believe,” I observed. “Or a club—most American saloons are clubs, I understand.”

“I wonder if there’s a ladies’ day there?” laughed Dolly. “If there isn’t, perhaps I’d better not.”

And I of course agreed, for when Dolly thinks perhaps she’d better not, I always agree with her, particularly when the thing is a trifle unconventional.

“I am sorry,” she said, as we reached the conclusion. “To visit Chicago without meeting Mr. Dooley strikes me as like making the Mediterranean trip without seeing Gibraltar.”

But we were not to be disappointed, after all, for that afternoon who should call but the famous philosopher himself, accompanied by his friend Mr. Hennessey. They were ushered into our little parlor, and Dolly received them radiantly.

“Iv coorse,” said Dooley, “I hatter come t’ see me new-found cousin. Hennessey here says, he says, ‘She ain’t yer cousin,’ he says; but whin I read yer car-r-rd over th’ second time, an’ see yer na-a-ame was R. Dooley-Rassendyll, wid th’ hifalution betwixt th’ Dooley an’ th’ Rassendyll, I says, ‘Hennessey,’ I says, ‘that shmall bit iv a coupler in that na-a-ame means only wan thing,’ I says. ‘Th’ la-ady,’ I says, ‘was born a Dooley, an’ ’s prood iv it,’ I says, ‘as she’d ought to be,’ I says. ‘Shure enough,’ says Hennessey; ‘but they’s Dooleys an’ Dooleys,’ he says. ‘Is she Roscommon or Idunnaw?’ he says. ‘I dinnaw meself,’ I says, ‘but whichiver she is,’ I says, ‘I’m goin’ to see her,’ I says. ‘Anny wan that can feel at home in a big hotel like the Hippojorium,’ Isays, ‘is wort’ lookin’ at, if only for the curawsity of it,’ I says. Are ye here for long?”

“We are just passing through,” said Dolly, with a pleased smile.

“It’s a gud pla-ace for that,” said Dooley. “Thim as pass troo Chicago ginerally go awaa pleased, an’ thim as stays t’ink it’s th’ only pla-ace in th’ worruld, gud luk to ’em! for, barrin’ Roscommon an’ New York, it’s th’ only pla-ace I have anny use for. Is yer hoosband anny relation t’ th’ dood in thePrizner iv Cinders?”

I laughed quietly, but did not resent the implication. I left Dolly to her fate.

“He is the very same person,” said Dolly.

“I t’ought as much,” said Dooley, eying me closely. “Th’ strorberry mark on his hair sort of identified him,” he added. “Cousin Roopert, I ta-ak ye by the hand. Ye was a bra-ave lad in th’ first book, an’ a dom’d fool in th’ second; but I read th’ second first, and th’ first lasht, so whin Ileft ye ye was all right. I t’ought ye was dead?”

“No,” said I. “I am only dead in the sense that Mr. Hope has no further use for me.”

“A wise mon, that Mr. Ant’ny Hawp,” said Dooley. “Whin I write me book,” he continued, “I’m goin’ t’ shtop short whin folks have had enough.”

“Oh, indeed!” cried Dolly, enthusiastically. “Are you writing a book, Mr. Dooley? I am so glad.”

“Yis,” said Dooley, deprecatingly, yet pleased by Dolly’s enthusiasm. “I’m half finished already. That is to say, I’ve made th’ illusthrations. An’ the publishers have accepted the book on th’ stringth iv them.”

“Really?” said Dolly. “Do you really draw?”

“Nawm,” said Dooley. “I niver drew a picture in me life.”

“He draws corks,” put in Hennessey. “He’s got a pull that bates—”

“Hennessey,” interrupted Mr. Dooley, “since whin have ye been me funnygraph?Whin me cousin ashks me riddles, I’ll tell her th’ answers. G’ down-shtairs an’ get a cloob san’wich an’ ate yourself to death. Char-rge it to—er—char-rge it to Misther Rassendyll here—me cousin Roop, be marritch. He looks liks a soft t’ing.”

Hennessey subsided and showed an inclination to depart, and I, not liking to see a well-meaning person thus sat upon, tried to be pleasant to him.

“Don’t go just yet, Mr. Hennessey,” said I. “I should like to talk to you.”

“Mr. Rassendyll,” he replied, “I’m not goin’ just yet, but an invitation to join farces with one iv the Hippojorium’s cloob sandwhiches is too much for me. I must accept. Phwat is the noomber iv your shweet?”

I gave him the number, and Hennessey departed. Before he went, however, he comforted me somewhat by saying that he too was “a puppit in th’ han’s iv an auter. Ye’ve got to do,” said he, “whativer ye’re sint t’ do. I’m told ye’ve killed a million Germans—bless ye!—but ye’renawthin’ but a facthory hand afther all. I’m th’ background iv Dooley. If Dooley wants to be smar-rt, I’ve got t’ play th’ fool. It’s the same with you; only you’ve had yer chance at a printcess, later on pla-acin’ the la-ady in a ’nonymous p’sition—which is enough for anny man, Dooley or no Dooley.”

Hennessey departed in search of his club sandwich, which was subsequently alluded to in my bill, and for which I paid with pleasure, for Hennessey is a good fellow. I then found myself listening to the conversation between Dolly and Dooley.

“Roscommon, of course,” Dolly was saying. What marvellous adaptability that woman has! “How could you think, my dear cousin, that I belonged to the farmer Dooleys?”

“I t’ought as much,” said Mr. Dooley, genially, “now that I’ve seen ye. Whin you put th’ wor-rds ‘at home’ on yer car-rd, I had me doots. No Dooley iv th’ right sor-rt iver liked annyt’ing a landlord gave him; an’ whin y’ expreshed satisfactionwid th’ Hippojorium, I didn’t at first t’ink ye was a true Dooley. Since I’ve seen ye, I love ye properly, ma’am—like th’ cousin I am. I’ve read iv ye, just as I’ve read iv yer hoosband, Cousin Roopert here be marritch, in th’ biojographies of Mr. Ant’ny Hawp, an’ while I cudn’t help likin’ ye, I must say I didn’t t’ink ye was very deep on th’ surface, an’ when I read iv your elopin’ with Cousin Roop, I says to Hennessey, I says, ‘Hennessey,’ I says, ‘that’s all right, they’d bote iv ’em better die, but let us not be asashinators,’ I says; ‘let ’em be joined in marritch. That’s punishment enough,’ I says to Hennessey. Ye see, Miss Dooley, I have been marrit meself.”

“But I have found married life far from punishment,” I heard Dolly say. “I fear you’re a sad pessimist, Mr. Dooley,” she added.

“I’m not,” Mr. Dooley replied. “I’m a Jimmycrat out an’ out, if ye refer to me politics; but if your remark is a reflection on me religion, let me tell ye, ma’am,that, like all me countrymen in this beautiful land, I’m a Uni-tarrian, an’ prood iv it.”

I ventured to interpose at this point.

“Dooley,” said I, “your cousin Roop, as you call him, is very glad to meet you, whatever your politics or your religion.”

“Mosht people are,” said he, dryly.

“That shows good taste,” said I. “But how about your book? It has been accepted on the strength of its illustrations, you say. How about them? Can we see them anywhere? Are they on exhibition?”

“You can not only see thim, but you can drink ’em free anny time you come out to Archie Road,” Dooley replied, cordially.

“Drink—a picture?” I asked.

KAPE YOUR HOOSBAND HOME“‘KAPE YOUR HOOSBAND HOME’”

“Yis,” said Dooley. “Didn’t ye iver hear iv dhrinkin’ in a picture, Cousin Roopert? Didn’t ye hear th’ tark about th’ ‘Angelus’ whin ’twas here? Ye cud hear th’ bells ringin’ troo th’ paint iv it. Ye cud almost hear th’ couple in front just back iv th’ varnish quar’lin as t’whether ’twas th’ Angelus er the facthery bell thatwas goin’ off. ’Twas big an’ little felt th’ inflooance iv Misther Miller’s jaynius, just be lukin’ at ut—though as fer me, th’ fir-rst time I see the t’ing I says, says I, ‘Is ut lukin’ for bait to go fishin’ with they are?’ I says. ‘Can’t ye hear the pealin’ iv the bells?’ says Hennessey, who was with me. ‘That an’ more,’ I says. ‘I can hear the pealin’ o’ th’ petayties,’ I says. ‘Do ye dhrink in th’ feelin’ iv it?’ says Hennessey. ‘Naw, t’ank ye,’ I says. ‘I’m not thirsty,’ I says. ‘Besides, I’ve swore off dhrinkin’ ile-paintin’s,’ I says. ‘Wathercoolers is gud enough fer me,’ I says. An’ wid that we wint back to the Road. But that was th’ fir-rst time I iver heard iv dhrinkin’ a work iv ar-rt.”

“But some of the things you—ah—you Americans drink,” put in Dolly, “are works of art, my dear Mr. Dooley. Your cousin Rupert gave me a cocktail at dinner last night—”

“Ye’ve hit ut, Miss Dooley,” returned the philosopher, with a beautiful enthusiasm. “Ye’ve hit ut square. I seenow 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 Metis 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.”

MIXING ILLUSTRATIONSMIXING 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.

The applause which followed the reading of the Dooley Dialogue showed very clearly that, among the diners at least, neither Dooley nor Dolly had waned in popularity. If the dilution, the faint echo of the originals, evoked such applause, how potent must have been the genius of the men who first gave life to Dooley and the fair Dolly!

“That’s good stuff, Greenwich,” said Billie Jones. “You must have eaten a particularly digestible meal. Now for the tenth ball. Who has it?”

“I,” said Dick Snobbe, rising majestically from his chair. “And I can tell you what it is; I had a tough time of it in mydream, as you will perceive when I recite to you the story of my experiences at the battle of Manila.”

“Great Scott, Dick!” cried Bedford Parke. “You weren’t in that, were you?”

“Sir,” returned Dick, “I was not onlyinit, I was the thing itself. I was the war correspondent of the SundayWhirnal, attached to Dewey’s fleet.”

Whereupon the talented Mr. Snobbe proceeded to read the following cable despatch from the special correspondent of theWhirnal:

MANILA FALLSTHE SPANISH FLEET DESTROYEDTHE SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT OF THEWHIRNALAided by Commodore Dewey and his FleetCAPTURES THE PHILIPPINES

Manila,May 1, 1898.—I have glorious news. I have this day destroyed the Spanish fleet and captured the Philippine Islands. According to my instructionsfrom the City Editor of theWhirnal, I boarded theOlympia, the flag-ship of the fleet under Commodore Dewey at Hong-kong, on Wednesday last. Upon reading my credentials the Commodore immediately surrendered the command of the fleet to me, and retired to his state-room, where he has since remained. I deemed it well to keep him there until after the battle was over, fearing lest he should annoy me with suggestions, and not knowing but that he might at any time spread dissension among the officers and men, who, after the habit of seamen, frequently manifest undue affection and sympathy for a deposed commander. I likewise, according to your wishes, concealed from the officers and crew the fact that the Commodore had been deposed, furthering the concealment by myself making up as Dewey. Indeed, it was not until after the battle this morning that any but Dewey and the ship’s barber were aware of the substitution, since my disguise was perfect. The ship’s barber I had to takeinto my confidence, for unfortunately on leaving Hong-kong I had forgotten to provide myself with a false mustache, so that in concealing the deposition of the Commodore by myself assuming his personality I was compelled to have the gentleman’s mustache removed from his upper lip and transferred to my own. This the barber did with neatness and despatch, I having first chloroformed the Commodore, from whom some resistance might have been expected, owing to his peculiar temperament. Fortunately the fellow was an expert wig-maker, and within an hour of the shaving of Dewey I was provided with a mustache which could not fail to be recognized as the Commodore’s, since it was indeed that very same object. When five hundred miles at sea I dropped the barber overboard, fearing lest he should disturb my plans by talking too much. I hated to do it, but in the interest of theWhirnalI hold life itself as of little consequence, particularly if it is the life of some one else—and who knows but thepoor fellow was an expert swimmer, and has by this time reached Borneo or some other bit of dry land? He was alive when I last saw him, and yelling right lustily. If it so happen that he has swum ashore somewhere, kindly let me know at your convenience; for beneath a correspondent’s exterior I have a warm heart, and it sometimes troubles me to think that the poor fellow may have foundered, since the sea was stressful and the nearest dry point was four hundred and sixty knots away to S.E. by N.G., while the wind was blowing N.W. by N.Y.C. & H.R.R. But to my despatch.

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