“D’ye think a foreign fleet cud capture this counthry?” asked Mr. Hennessy.

“Not onless it was op’rated be a throlley,” said Mr. Dooley.

“Supposin’ ye an’ I had throuble, Hinnissy, an’ both iv us was armed with bricks an’ ye was on roller skates an’ I was on th’ top iv a house, how much chanst wud ye have again’ me?  Ships is good to fight other ships.  That’s all.  I’d sooner be behind a bank iv mud thin in th’ finest ship in th’ wurruld.  A furrin inimy thryin’ to get up to New York wud be like a blind burglar attimptin’ to walk on th’ top iv a hot-house with all th’ neighbors an’ th’ neighbors’ dogs waitin’ f’r him.  Th’ war game is all right.  It don’t do anny harm.  But it’s like punchin’ th’ bag an’ I’d jus’ as soon thrain a man f’r a fight be larnin’ him to play th’ mandolin, as be insthructin’ him in bag punchin’.  It’s a fine game.  I don’t know who won, but I know who lost.”

“Who’s that?” asked Mr. Hennessy.

“Th’ threeasury,” said Mr. Dooley.

Newspaper Publicity

“Was ye iver in th’ pa-apers?” asked Mr. Dooley.

“Wanst,” said Mr. Hennessy.  “But it wasn’t me.  It was another Hinnissy.  Was you?”

“Manny times,” said Mr. Dooley.  “Whin I was prom’nent socyally, ye cud hardly pick up a pa-aper without seein’ me name in it an’ th’ amount iv th’ fine.  Ye must lade a very simple life.  Th’ newspaper is watchin’ most iv us fr’m th’ cradle to th’ grave, an’ befure an’ afther.  Whin I was a la-ad thrippin’ continted over th’ bogs iv Roscommon, ne’er an iditor knew iv me existence, nor I iv his.  Whin annything was wrote about a man ’twas put this way:  ’We undhershtand on good authority that M—­l—­chi H—–­y, Esquire, is on thrile before Judge G——­n on an accusation iv l—­c—­ny.  But we don’t think it’s true.’  Nowadays th’ larceny is discovered be a newspa-aper.  Th’ lead pipe is dug up in ye’er back yard be a rayporther who knew it was there because he helped ye bury it.  A man knocks at ye’er dure arly wan mornin’ an’ ye answer in ye’er nighty.  ‘In th’ name iv th’ law, I arrist ye,’ says th’ man seizin’ ye be th’ throat.  ‘Who ar-re ye?’ ye cry.  ‘I’m a rayporther f’r th’ Daily Slooth,’ says he.  ’Phottygrafter, do ye’er jooty!’ Ye’re hauled off in th’ circylation wagon to th’ newspaper office, where a con-fission is ready f’r ye to sign; ye’re thried be a jury iv th’ staff, sintinced be th’ iditor-in-chief an’ at tin o’clock Friday th’ fatal thrap is sprung be th’ fatal thrapper iv th’ fam’ly journal.

“Th’ newspaper does ivrything f’r us.  It runs th’ polis foorce an’ th’ banks, commands th’ milishy, conthrols th’ ligislachure, baptizes th’ young, marries th’ foolish, comforts th’ afflicted, afflicts th’ comfortable, buries th’ dead an’ roasts thim aftherward.  They ain’t annything it don’t turn its hand to fr’m explaining th’ docthrine iv thransubstantiation to composin’ saleratus biskit.  Ye can get