"Give it to who?" asked Mr. McKenna.
"To th' Dimmycrats," said Mr. Dooley.
"Go on," said Mr. McKenna. "You're a Democrat yourself."
"Me?" said Mr. Dooley, "not on your life. Not in wan hundherd thousand years. Me a Dimmycrat? I shud say not, Jawn, me buck. I'm the hottest kind iv a Raypublican, me an' Maloney. I suppose they ain't two such Raypublicans annywhere. How can anny wan be annything else? Who was it that saved the Union, Jawn? Who was it? Who are th' frinds iv th' Irish? Who protecks th' poor wurrukin'man so that he'll have to go on wurrukin'? We do, Jawn. We Raypublicans, by dad.
"They ain't a Dimmycrat fr'm wan end iv th' road to th' other. I just was over makin' a visit on Docherty, an' he'd took down th' picture iv Jackson an' Cleveland an' put up wan iv Grant an' Lincoln. Willum Joyce have come out f'r McKinley f'r Prisident, an' th' polisman on th' beat told me las' night that th' left'nant told him that 'twas time f'r a change. Th' Dimmycrats had rooned th' counthry with their free trade an' their foreign policy an' their I dinnaw what, an' 'twas high time an honest man got a crack at a down-town precinct with a faro bank or two in it. Th' polisman agreed with him that Cleveland have raised th' divvle with th' Constitootion; an', by gar, he's right, too. He's right, Jawn. He have a boy in th' wather office.
"Ye mind Maloney, th' la-ad with th' game eye? He tends a bridge over be Goose Island way, but he was down here iliction day. Two weeks before iliction day he was again Winter. 'He's no good,' he says. 'He's a Boohemian,' he says. 'An' whin they come to ilictin' Boohemians f'r mayor,' he says, 'I'll go back to me ol' thrade iv shovellin' mud,' he says. 'Besides,' says he, 'if this here Winter wint in,' he says, 'ye cudden't stand acrost La Salle Street an' hand him a peach on a window pole, he'd be that stuck up,' he says.
"Some wan must 've spoke to him; f'r, whin he come in th' next time, he says, 'They'se no use talkin',' he says, 'that there Dutchman is sthrong,' he says. 'I thought he was a Boolgahrian,' says I. 'No,' says he, 'he's a German man,' says he. 'An' th' Germans is with him to th' bitther end,' he says. 'D'ye know,' he says, 'I believe he'll give th' little bald-headed duck a run f'r his money,' he says. 'Thim Germans stand together,' he says. 'They're th' most clannish people on earth,' he says. 'I'm goin' over to th' Wolfe Tones to see what th' la-ads think about it.' Sundah night he come an' give a ca-ard f'r Winter to ivry man in th' place. 'He'll sweep th' town like a whirlwind,' he says. 'They can't beat him.' 'Who?' says I. 'Winter, iv coorse.' 'Is he a nice man?' says I. 'Wan iv th' finest men on earth,' he says. 'A spoort, too,' he says. 'An' liberal.'
"He was in here iliction day, an' I had Hinnissy's kid runnin' fr'm th' station with rayturns. Maloney was talkin' to th' crowd an' buyin' dhrinks. 'Ye'd be surprised,' says he, 'to know what a nice fellow this here Winter is,' he says. 'Ye'd niver take him f'r a German,' he says. 'He have no more accint thin mesilf.' The kid come in, an' says he, 'Th' loot says tin precincts show Swift have a majority as big as what th' Raypublicans got las' fall.' 'That's bad,' says I. 'Not at all,' says Maloney. 'Thim's th' down-town wa-ards,' he says. 'Wait till ye hear fr'm th' Germans,' he says. Th' nex' booletin said Swift was gainin', an' had tin thousand majority. 'Niver mind,' says Maloney. 'Th' Germans 'll wipe that out,' he says. Thin we heerd it was twinty thousand f'r Swift. 'Glory be,' says Maloney, 'th' Germans is slow comin' in,' he says. 'Maybe,' says I, 'they forgot to vote,' says I. 'Maybe they're havin' a schootzenfist,' I says, 'an' are out killin' clay pigeons instid iv attendin' to business,' I says. Just thin th' loot come in. 'Well,' says he, ''tis quite a Waterloo,' says he. 'F'r who?' says I. 'Oh,' he says, 'Swift got it be forty thousand.'
"Maloney wiped his face, and took off his hat an' swabbed it inside. Thin says he: 'D'ye raymimber me meetin' ye down-town a week ago on Dorney's place, loot?' he says. 'Yes,' says th' loot. 'D'ye mind what I said thin?' he says, 'I don't call it just now,' says the loot. 'Well, I just come fr'm a meetin' iv th' Swift Marchin' Club, an' I niver seen so much enthusyasm; an' I says to ye, I says: 'Loot,' I says, 'Swift 'll bate him aisy,' I says. 'I knew he would fr'm th' beginnin'. Ye take an' put up a good broad liberal man like George B., a man that has frinds an' knows how to be a good fellow, an' run him again a Boohemian gazabo who gives ivry man th' marble heart an' 'd turn down his own brother, an' anny fool cud tell who 'd win. They'll be some chance f'r a man with Swift over there; but, if this here Winter wint in, ye cudden't stand acrost La Salle Sthreet an' hand him a peach on th' end iv a window pole,' he says.
"Will he lose his job? Not much, Jawn. That la-ad 'll be swingin' bridges an' throwin' away th' crust iv his pie whin you an' me are atin' ha-ard coal. He will that. But what do I care? Machs nix aus, Jawn; an' that being translated manes, 'What th' 'ell.'"