Mr. Dooley: In the Hearts of His Countrymen

by Finley Peter Dunne

A VISIT TO JEKYL ISLAND.

"I'd like to been there," said Mr. Dooley.

"Where's that?" Mr. Hennessy asked.

"At Shekel Island," said Mr. Dooley, "seein' me frind Mack an' me frind Tom Reed meetin' be th' sad sea waves.

"Ye see, Mack was down there with Mark Hanna. He was tired out with expandin', an' anxiety f'r fear me frind Alger 'd raysign; an' says Hanna, he says, 'Come down,' he says, 'with me,' he says, 'to Shekel Island,' he says. ''Tis th' home iv rayfinemint an' riches,' he says, 'where us millyionaires rest fr'm takin' care iv th' counthry,' he says. 'There in th' shade iv th' coupon threes,' he says, 'we watch th' sea waves, an' wondher,' he says, 'whin th' goold that's in thim can be exthracted,' he says. 'They'se nawthin' to break th' silence,' he says, 'but th' roarin' iv th' ocean,' he says; 'an' that sounds nat'ral,' he says, 'because 'tis almost like th' sound iv th' stock exchange,' he says. 'A man,' he says, 'that has th' ticker eye,' he says, 'or th' coupon thumb,' he says, 'is cured in no time,' he says. 'Come,' he says, 'fly with me,' he says. 'They'se nawthin' to keep ye here,' he says. 'Ivry wan iv th' cab'net, includin' th' Sicrety iv War, 'll stick to his place,' he says, 'like a man,' he says.

"An' Mack wint with him. He was settin' on th' beach in a goold chair, surrounded be millyionaires, with th' prisident iv a bank fannin' him an' th' threeasurer iv a dimon' mine poorin' his dhrink; an', though he was feelin' well, they was something on his mind. 'What ails ye?' ast Hanna. 'I was thinkin',' says Mack, 'how pleasant 'twud be if me ol' frind Tom Reed was here,' he says. ''Twud be Paradise if he was here,' he says, whin, lo an' behold, who shud come acrost th' dimon'-studded beach, wadin' through th' bank-notes that 'd been dropped be th' good farmers iv Shekel Island, but Tom Reed.

"Well, sir, to see th' affection that those two great men showed at th' encounther 'd dhraw tears fr'm th' eyes iv a hear-rt iv sthone. 'Tom,' says Mack, in faltherin' accints, 'where have ye been? F'r days an' days I've skinned yon blue horizon f'r anny sign iv ye,' he says. 'An' ye come not,' he says. 'I didn't think I cud miss ye so,' he says. 'Embrace me,' he says, 'if ye ar-re not ar-rmed,' he says. 'Mack,' says me frind Tom Reed, with tears in his eyes, 'this,' he says, 'is th' happiest moment iv me life,' he says. 'I cudden't,' he says, 'I cudden't stay in Wash'nton,' he says, 'with you so far away,' he says, 'where I cudden't watch ye,' he says. 'Ye're th' on'y man in th' wurruld I care f'r,' he says, 'but mesilf.' he says. 'An',' he says, 'I'd fall weepin' on ye'er shoulder this minyit,' he says; 'but I don't want to be disrayspectful be turnin' me back on Misther Hanna,' he says.

"'Well,' says Mack, 'sit down,' he says. 'Rockyfeller,' he says, 'tell Morgan f'r to fetch up a kag iv sherry wine,' he says. 'Tom,' he says, 'we've been frinds f'r years,' he says. 'We have,' says Tom. 'We've concealed it fr'm th' vulgar an' pryin' public,' he says; 'but in our hear-rts we've been frinds, barrin' th' naygur dillygates at th' convintion,' he says. ''Twas a mere incident,' says Mack. 'We've been frinds,' he says; 'an' I've always wanted,' he says, 'to do something f'r ye,' he says. 'Th' time has come,' he says, 'whin I can realize me wish,' he says. 'I offer ye,' he says, 'th' Prisidincy, to succeed me,' he says. 'No, no,' he says, 'I'll not be rayfused,' he says. 'I'm tired iv it,' he says. ''Twas foorced on me be foolish frinds,' he says; 'but I'm not th' man f'r th' place,' he says. 'I haven't dhrawn a comfortable breath, not to speak iv salary, since I wint in,' he says.

"Th' speaker iv th' house burrid his face in his hands, an' sobs shook him partly f'r manny minyits. Thin he raised his head, an' says he, 'Mack,' he says, 'I can't take it,' he says. ''Tis most gin'rous iv ye,' he says, 'but me hear-rt fails me,' he says. 'What is it to be Prisident?' says he. 'Th' White House,' he says, 'is a prison,' he says, 'to which a man is condimned,' he says, 'f'r fine wurruk at th' polls,' he says. 'Th' life iv a Prisident is slavery,' he says. 'If I was to take th' job,' he says, 'I'd be tortured day an' night,' he says, 'be th' fear iv assassination,' he says. 'Think,' he says, 'iv some arnychist shootin' thirteen-inch shells at me,' he says, 'an' maybe,' he says, 'dentin' me,' he says. 'No,' he says, 'I have a good job where I am,' he says. 'All I've got to do,' he says, 'is to set up at th' desk,' he says, 'an' not recall th' names iv th' gintlemen on th' flure, an' me jooty's done,' he says. 'I thank ye kindly, Willum; but I cannot accept ye'er gin'rous offer,' he says. 'Go back to th' cell,' he says, 'an' slave like a convict,' he says. 'I will not rob me frind,' he says, 'iv such an honor. But,' he says, 'tell me whin ye thought iv throwin' up th' job, an' lavin' me br-reak into this hateful prison,' he says. 'About th' year two thousan' an' eight, dear frind,' says Mack. 'No, no,' says Tom Reed. 'I cannot accept it,' he says, pressin' Mack's hand. ''Tis too much,' he says, 'an' too long,' he says.