"Whin th' sicrety iv th' threasury wants to repoort to him, he starts fr'm his office on his stomach an' wriggles into th' august prisince. 'What is it ye want, oh head iv lignum vity?' says th' Sultan. 'Bark f'r th' ladies,' says he with a chuckle. 'Oh, descindant iv th' prophet, whose name be blest! Oh, sun an' moon an' stars, whose frown is death an' whose smile is heaven to th' faithful;—' 'Don't be so familyar with me first name,' says th' Sultan, 'but go on with ye'er contimptible supplication,' says he. 'Ye'er slave,' says th' sicrety iv th' threasury fr'm th' flure, 'is desthroyed with grief to tell ye that afther standin' th' intire empire on its head he's been onable to shake out more thin two millyon piasthres f'r this week's expinses iv ye'er awfulness,' says he. 'What!' says th' sultan, 'two millyon piasthres—bar'ly enough to buy bur-rd seed f'r me bulbuls,' says he. 'How dare ye come into me august prisince with such an insult. Lave it on th' flure f'r th' boy that sweeps up, oh, son iv a tailor,' he says, an' he gives a nod an' fr'm behind a curtain comes Jawn Johnson with little on him, an' th' next thing ye hear iv th' faithless minister is a squeak an' a splash. He rules be love alone, thinks I, an' feelin' that life without love is useless, annybody that don't love him can go an' get measured f'r a name plate an' be sure he'll need it befure th' price is lower. His people worship him an' why shudden't they. He allows thim to keep all th' dogs they want, he proticts thim fr'm dissolute habits be takin' their loose money fr'm thim, an' ivry year he gives thim an Armeenyan massacree which is a great help to th' cigareet business in this counthry.
"Happy Abdul, thinks I. If I cud be a haythen an' was a marryin' man, 'tis ye'er soft spot I'd like to land in f'r me declinin' days. So whin I r-read in th' pa-apers that there was a rivolution startin' to fire Abdul Hamid, I says to mesilf: 'A fine chance ye've got, me lads. That old boy will be holdin' down his job whin there's a resignation fr'm th' supreeme coort bench at Wash'nton,' says I. 'Th' first thing ye young Turks know ye'll-be gettin' a prisent fr'm ye'er sov'reign iv a necktie,' says I, 'an' it won't fit ye,' says I.
"Well, sir, I was wrong. I knew I was wrong th' minyit I see a pitcher iv Abdul Hamid in th' pa-aper—a snap-shot, mind ye! Think of that, will ye? D'ye suppose a sultan or a king that knew his thrade wud iver let anny wan take a snap-shot iv him? Did ye iver hear iv Alexander th' Gr-reat or Napoleon Bonyparte havin' a snap-shot took iv him? No, sir. Whin they wanted to satisfy th' vulgar curiosity iv th' popylace to know what their lord looked like, they chained an artist to a wall in th' cellar of th' palace an', says they: 'Now set down an' paint a pitcher iv me that will get ye out iv here,' says they. Nobody in thim days knew that th' king had a mole on his nose an' that wan iv his eyes was made iv glass, excipt th' people that had jobs to lose.
"Up to th' time Abdul Hamid wint thrapezin' around Constantinople in a hack an' havin' his pitcher took be amachoor phottygrafters his job was secure. Up to that time whin wan Turk talked to another about him they talked in whispers. 'What d'ye suppose he's like, Osman?' says wan. 'Oh me, oh my,' says th' other, 'but he's th' tur-rble wan. They says his voice is like thunder, an' lightnin' shoots fr'm his eyes that wud shrivel th' likes iv ye an' me to a cinder.' But whin Abdul, be damid, as th' potes call him, made th' mistake iv pokin' his head out iv th' palace 'twas diff'rent. 'Well, who d'ye think I see to-day but th' Sultan. I tell ye I did. What is he like? He ain't much to look at—a skinny little man, Osman, that ye cud sthrangle between ye'er thumb an' forefinger. He had a bad cold an' was sneezin'. He wore a hand-me-down coat. He has a wen on th' back iv his neck an' he's crosseyed. Here's a pitcher iv him.' 'What, that little runt? Ye don't mean to say that's th' Sultan.—Why, he looks like th' fellow that stops me ivry day on th' corner an' asks me have I anny old clothes betther thin what I have on. An' to think iv th' likes iv him rulin' over th' likes iv us. Let's throw him out.'
"So it was with me old frind Abdul. Wan day a captain an' a squad iv polis backed th' wagon up to th' dure iv th' palace an' rung th' bell. 'Who's there?' says th' Sultan, stuffin' th' loose change into his shoe. 'Th' house is pulled,' says th' captain. 'Ye'er license is expired. Ye'd betther come peaceful,' he says. An' they bust in th' dure an' th' Sultan puts a shirt an' a couple iv collars into a grip an' selicts iliven iv his least formid-able wives to go along with him an' they put on their bonnets an' shawls an' carry out their bur-rd cages an' their goold fish an' their fancy wurruk an' th' pathrol wagon starts off an' has to stop so that iliven iv thim can go back an' get something they f'rgot at th' last moment an' th' ex-commander iv th' faithful says, 'Did ye iver know wan iv thim to be ready, Cap?' an' th' captain says, 'They're all alike, Doc,' an' th' dhriver clangs th' bell, an' off goes th' mighty potentate to a two-story frame house in Englewood. An' th' sultan's brother is taken out iv a padded cell where he had been kept f'r twinty years because he was crazy to be sultan, an' is boosted into th' throne. An' he has his pitcher took an' is intherviewed be th' reporthers an' tells thim he will do th' best he can an' he hopes th' press won't be too hard on him, because he is a poor loonytick annyhow.
"An' there ye ar-re. There goes me dhream iv bein' sultan along with me dhream iv bein' a gr-reat gin'ral till th' Spanish war. If that's th' kind iv job a sultan has, I'll lave it f'r anny wan to take that wants it. Why, be Hivens, whin th' Young Turks come to search th' palace, like th' pathrites they ar-re, to find if he'd left anny money behind, divvle th' thrace they found iv annything that I'd thrade f'r me back room. I begun to feel sorry f'r th' poor old miscreent. Instead iv lollin' on a sofy an' listenin' to th' song iv th' mockin' bur-rd in th' pommygranite threes while ladies fr'm th' chorus iv 'Th' Black Crook' fanned him with fans iv peacock feathers, th' mis'rable old haythen was locked up in a garret with a revolver in his hand ready to shoot anny wan that come next or near him. He suffered fr'm dyspepsia an' he cuddent sleep nights. He cud ate nawthin' sthronger thin milk toast. He was foorced be fashion's whim to have five hundhred wives whin wan was abundant. Take it all in all, he led a dog's life, an' I bet ye he's happyer now where he is, wathrin' th' geeranyums, mowin' th' lawn, an' sneakin' into Constantinople iv a Saturday night an' seein' Circassyan girls dancin' f'r th' first time in his life. His childher are all grown up an' safe in jail, he has four hundhred an' eighty-nine less wives, but iliven are a good manny in th' suburbs; he has put away a few piasthres f'r a rainy day, out-iv-dure life may improve his health, an' I shudden't wondher if ye'd read some day in th' pa-aper: 'At th' Stambool county fair th' first prize f'r Poland Chiny hens was won be A. Hamid, th' pop'lar ex-sultan.'
"Ye can't tell annything about it. Give th' poor man a chance, says I. There may be th' makins iv a dacint citizen in him afther all. What opporchunity has he had, tell me? What can ye expict fr'm a man that niver was taught annything betther thin that he cud do annything he wanted to do without bein' called down f'r it? It doesn't make anny diff'rence whether 'tis a polisman or th' Rajah iv Beloochistan, be gorry, put a club in his hand an' tell him that he can use it an' he'll begin usin' it tomorrah. He'll break wan head tomorrah, two th' next day, an' befure he's been on th' foorce or th' throne a year it'll be a whack on th' chimbly befure he says 'How ar-re ye.' By an' by he'll get so manny people afraid iv him that he'll be in danger and that'll make him afraid iv thim, an' thin he'll be more dangerous thin iver, d'ye mind? Th' on'y man ye need to be afraid iv is th' man that's afraid iv ye. An' that's what makes a tyrant. He's scared to death. If I'd thought about it whin I r-read iv me frind murdherin' people I'd've known they'd find him thremblin' in a room an' shootin' at th' hired girl whin she come in with his porridge. So I'm glad afther all that I didn't put in me application. I want no man to fear me. I'd hate to be more of a coward thin I am."
"What ar-re these Turkish athrocities I've been r-readin' about?" said Mr. Hennessy.
"I don't know," said Mr. Dooley. "I don't keep thim. Have a cigar?"