“Tis betther so,” said Mr. Dooley:  “a bicycle is more satisfactory f’r a steady thing.  But, faith, ‘tis no jokin’ matter.  May th’ Lord forgive me f’r makin’ light iv it!  Jawn, whin I read about thim poor people down in St. Looey, sthruck be th’ wrath iv Hivin’ without more warnin’ thin a man gets in a Polock church fight an’ swept to their graves be th’ hundherds, me heart ached in me.

“But they’se always some compinsation in th’ likes iv this.  To see th’ wurruld as it r-runs along in its ordinrey coorse, with ivry man seemin’ to be lookin’ f’r th’ best iv it an’ carryin’ a little hammer f’r his fellow-suff’rers, ye’d think what Hinnissy calls th’ springs iv human sympathy was as dhry in th’ breast as a bricklayer’s boot in a box iv mortar.  But let annything happen like this, an’ men ye’d suspect iv goin’ round with a cold chisel liftin’ name-plates off iv coffins comes to th’ front with their lips full iv comfort an’ kindliness an’, what’s more to th’ point, their hands full iv coin.

“Years ago there used to be a man be th’ name iv O’Brien—­no relation iv th’ sinitor—­lived down be th’ dumps.  He was well off, an’ had quit wur-rkin’ f’r a living.  Well, whether he’d been disappointed in love or just naturally had a kick up to him again th’ wurruld I niver knew; but this here ol’ la-ad put in his time from morn till night handin’ out contimpt an’ hathred to all mankind.  No wan was harder to rent fr’m.  He had some houses near Halsted Sthreet, an’ I’ve see him servin’ five days’ notices on his tenants whin’ th’ weather was that cold ye cudden’t see th’ inside iv th’ furnace-rooms at th’ mill f’r th’ frost on th’ window.  Of all th’ landlords on earth, th’ Lord deliver me fr’m an’ Irish wan.  Whether ‘tis that fr’m niver holdin’ anny land in th’ ol’ counthry they put too high a fondness on their places whin they get a lot or two over here, I don’t know; but they’re quicker with th’ constable thin anny others.  I’ve seen men, that ’d divide their last cint with ye pay night, as hard, whin it come to gather in th’ rent f’r two rooms in th’ rear, as if they was an Irish peer’s agents; an’ O’Brien had no such start iv binivolence to go on.  He niver seemed to pass th’ poor-box in church without wantin’ to break into it.  He charged cint per cint whin Casey, th’ plumber, buried his wife an’ borrid money f’r th’ funeral expenses.  I see him wanst chasin’ th’ agent iv th’ Saint Vincent de Pauls down th’ road f’r darin’ to ask him f’r a contribution.  To look at his har-rsh red face, as he sat at his window markin’ up his accounts, ye’d know he was hard in th’ bit an’ heavy in th’ hand.  An’ so he was,—­as hard an’ heavy as anny man I iver seen in all me born days.