“Now, don’t go gettin’ cross about th’ rich, Hinnissy.  Put up that dinnymite.  Don’t excite ye’ersilf about us folks in Newport.  It’s always been th’ same way, Father Kelly tells me.  Says he:  ‘If a man is wise, he gets rich an’ if he gets rich, he gets foolish, or his wife does.  That’s what keeps th’ money movin’ around.  What comes in at th’ ticker goes out at th’ wine agent.  F’river an’ iver people have been growin’ rich, goin’ down to some kind iv a Newport, makin’ monkeys iv thimsilves an’ goin’ back to th’ jungle.  ’Tis a steady pro-cission.  Aisy come, lazy go.  In ivry little hamlet in this broad land, there’s some man with a broad jaw an’ th’ encouragement iv a good woman, makin’ ready to shove some other man off his steam yacht.  At this very minyit whin I speak, me frind Jawn Grates has his eye on Hankerbilk’s house.  He wud swing a hammock in th’ woodshed this year, but nex’ he may have his feet up on th’ bannister iv th’ front stoop.  Whin a captain iv industhry stops dhrinkin’ at th’ bar, he’s near his finish.  If he ain’t caught in his own person, th’ constable will get to his fam’ly.  Ye read about th’ union iv two gr-reat fortunes.  A dollar meets another dollar, they are conganial, have sim’lar tastes, an’ manny mutual frinds.  They are marrid an’ bring up a fam’ly iv pennies, dimes, thirty-cintses an’ countherfeits.  An’ afther awhile, th’ fam’ly passes out iv circylation.  That’s th’ histhry iv it,’ says Father Kelly.  ‘An’,’ says he,’ I’m glad there is a Newport,’ he says.  ‘It’s th’ exhaust pipe,’ he says.  ‘Without it we might blow up,’ he says.  ‘It’s th’ hole in th’ top iv th’ kettle,’ he says.  ‘I wish it was bigger,’ he says.”

“Oh, well,” said Mr. Hennessy, “we are as th’ Lord made us.”

“No,” said Mr. Dooley, “lave us be fair.  Lave us take some iv th’ blame oursilves.”

Arctic Exploration

“This here business iv Artic exploration’s th’ gran’ pursoot,” said Mr. Dooley.  “A gran’, comfortable, fightin’, quarrelin’ business.”

“What’s it all about?” asked Mr. Hennessy.  “Why shud annywan want to go to th’ North Pole?  Ain’t it cold enough here?”

“I niver cud quite make it out,” said Mr. Dooley.  “I’ve heerd tell that years ago, befure th’ fire or th’ war, some wan had an idee in his foolish head that they was a gran’ sea up there with blue wather dimplin’ in th’ moonlight an’ cocynut threes growin’ on th’ shore an’ if a man cud on’y get in with his boat, he cud sail around th’ wurruld an’ fetch up in Chiny.  That idee blew up an’ thin some wan said ’twud be a fine thing f’r science if a white man cud get to th’ North Pole.  What he’d do if he got there no wan has anny thought.  Accordin’ to what I hear, th’ North Pole ain’t like a tillygraft pole, a barber pole, a fishin’ pole, a clothes pole, a poll-tax, a Maypole, a Russhyan Pole, or annything that ye can see, smell or ate.  Whin ye get to it, it is no