"'Tis ha-ard bein' a king these days," said Mr. Dooley. "Manny's th' man on a throne wishes his father'd brought him up a cooper, what with wages bein' docked be parlymints an' ragin' arnychists r-runnin' wild with dinnymite bombs undher their ar-rms an' carvin'-knives in their pockets.

"Onaisy, as Hogan says, is th' head that wears a crown. They'se other heads that're onaisy, too; but ye don't hear iv thim. But a man gr-rows up in wan iv thim furrin counthries, an' he's thrained f'r to be a king. Hivin may've intinded him f'r a dooce or a jack, at th' most; but he has to follow th' same line as his father. 'Tis like pawn-brokin' that way. Ye niver heerd iv a pawnbroker's son doin' annything else. Wanst a king, always a king. Other men's sons may pack away a shirt in a thrunk, an' go out into th' wurruld, brakin' on a freight or ladin' Indyanny bankers up to a shell game. But a man that's headed f'r a throne can't r-run away. He's got to take th' job. If he kicks, they blindfold him an' back him in. He can't ask f'r his time at th' end iv th' week, an' lave. He pays himsilf. He can't sthrike, because he'd have to ordher out th' polis to subjoo himsilf. He can't go to th' boss, an' say: 'Me hours is too long an' th' wurruk is tajious. Give me me pay-check.' He has no boss. A man can't be indipindint onless he has a boss. 'Tis thrue. So he takes th' place, an' th' chances ar-re he's th' biggest omadhon in th' wurruld, an' knows no more about r-runnin' a counthry thin I know about ladin' an orchesthry. An', if he don't do annything, he's a dummy, an', if he does do annything, he's crazy; an' whin he dies, his foreman says: 'Sure, 'tis th' divvle's own time I had savin' that bosthoon fr'm desthroyin' himsilf. If it wasn't f'r me, th' poor thing'd have closed down the wurruks, an' gone to th' far-rm long ago.' An' wan day, whin he's takin' th' air, p'raps, along comes an Eyetalyan, an' says he, 'Ar-re ye a king?' 'That's my name,' says his majesty. 'Betther dead,' says th' Eyetalyan; an' they'se a scramble, an' another king goes over th' long r-road.

"I don't know much about arnychists. We had thim here—wanst. They wint again polismen, mostly. Mebbe that's because polismen's th' nearest things to kings they cud find. But, annyhow, I sometimes think I know why they're arnychists somewhere, an' why they ain't in other places. It minds me iv what happened wanst in me cousin Terence's fam'ly. They was livin' down near Healey's slough in wan iv thim ol' Doherty's houses,—not Doherty that ye know, th' j'iner, a good man whin he don't dhrink. No, 'twas an ol' grouch iv a man be th' name iv Malachi Doherty that used to keep five-day notices in his thrunk, an' ownded his own privit justice iv th' peace. Me cousin Terence was as dacint a man as iver shoed a hor-rse; an his wife was a good woman, too, though I niver took much to th' Dolans. Fr'm Tipperary, they was, an' too handy throwin' things at ye. An' he had a nice fam'ly growin' up, an' I niver knowed people that lived together more quite an' amyable. 'Twas good f'r to see thim settin' ar-roun' th' parlor,—Terence spellin' out th' newspaper, an' his good woman mendin' socks, an' Honoria playin' th' 'Vale iv Avoca' on th' pianny, an' th' kids r-rowlin' on th' flure.

"But wan day it happened that that whole fam'ly begun to rasp on wan another. Honoria'd set down at th' pianny, an' th' ol' man'd growl: 'F'r th' love iv th' saints, close down that hurdy-gurdy, an' lave a man injye his headache!' An' th' good woman scolded Terence, an' th' kids pulled th' leg fr'm undher th' stove; an', whin th' big boy Mike come home fr'm Omaha, he found none iv thim speakin' to th' others. He cud do nawthin', an' he wint f'r Father Kelly. Father Kelly sniffed th' air whin he come in; an' says he, 'Terence, what's th' matther with ye'er catch basin?' 'I dinnaw,' growled Terence. 'Well,' says Father Kelly, 'ye put on ye'er hat this minyit, an' go out f'r a plumber,' he says. 'I'm not needed here,' he says. 'Ye'er sowls ar-re all r-right,' he says; 'but ye'er systems ar-re out iv ordher,' he says. 'Fetch in a plumber,' he says, 'whilst I goes down to Doherty, an' make him think his lease on th' hereafther is defective,' he says."

"Ye're right," said Mr. Hennessy, who had followed the argument dimly.

"Iv coorse I'm right," said Mr. Dooley. "What they need over there in furrin' counthries is not a priest, but a plumber. 'Tis no good prayin' again arnychists, Hinnissy. Arnychists is sewer gas."