“Hogan's been tellin' me iv a new play he r-read th' other day,” said Mr. Dooley. “'Tis be th' same la-ad that wrote th' piece they played down in th' Christyan Brothers' school last year about the man with th' big nose, that wud dhraw a soord or a pome on e'er a man alive. This wan is called 'The Little Eagle,' an' 'tis about th' son iv Napolyon th' Impror iv th' Fr-rinch, th' first wan, not th' wan I had th' fight about in Schwartzmeister's in eighteen hundhred an' siventy. Bad cess to that man, he was no good. I often wondher why I shtud up f'r him whin he had hardly wan frind in th' counthry. But I did, an' ye might say I'm a vethran iv th' Napolyonic Wars. I am so.

“But th' first Napolyon was a diff'rent man, an' whin he died he left a son that th' coorts tur-rned over to th' custody iv his mother, th' ol' man bein' on th' island—th' same place where Gin'ral Crownjoy is now. Tis about this la-ad th' play's written. He don't look to be much account havin' a hackin' cough all through the piece, but down undherneath he wants to be impror iv th' Fr-rinch like his father befure him, d'ye mind, on'y he don't dare to go out f'r it f'r fear iv catchin' a bad cold on his chist. Th' Austhreeches that has charge iv him don't like th' idee iv havin' him know what kind iv man his father was. Whin he asks: 'Where's pah?' They say: 'He died in jail.' 'What happened in 1805?' says th' boy. 'In 1805,' says th' Austhreeches, 'th' bar-rn blew down.' 'In 1806?' says th' boy. 'In 1806 th' chimney smoked.' 'Not so,' says th' prince. 'In 1806 me father crossed th' Rhine an' up,' he says, 'th' ar-rmed camps he marched to Augaspiel, to Lieberneck, to Donnervet. He changed his boots at Mikelstraus an' down th' eagle swooped on Marcobrun,' he says. 'Me gran'dad fled as flees th' hen befure th' hawk, but dad stayed not till gran'pa, treed, besought f'r peace. That's what me father done unto me gran'dad in eighteen six.' At this p'int he coughs but ye sees he knew what was goin' on, bein' taught in secret be a lady iv th' stage fr'm whom manny a la-ad cud larn th' truth about his father.

“Still he can't be persuaded f'r to apply f'r th' vacant improrship on account iv his lungs, till wan day a tailor shows up to measure him f'r some clothes. Th' tailor d'ye mind is a rivolutionist in disguise, an' has come down fr'm Paris f'r to injooce th' young man to take th' vacancy. 'Fourteen, six, thirty-three. How'll ye have th' pants made, Impror?' says th' tailor. 'Wan or two hip pockets?' says he.

“'Two hips,' says young Napolyon. 'What do ye mean be that?'” he says.

“'Thirty-eight, siventeen, two sides, wan watch, buckle behind. All Paris awaits ye, sire.'”

“'Make th' sleeves a little longer thin this,' says th' boy. 'An' fill out th' shouldhers. What proof have I?'”

“'Wan or two inside pockets?' says th' tailor. 'Two insides. Hankerchief pocket? Wan hankerchief. Th' pants is warn much fuller this year. Make that twinty-eight instid iv twinty-siven,' he says. 'Paris shrieks f'r ye,' he says.

“'Proof,' says th' la-ad.

“'They've named a perfume afther ye, a shirt waist, a paper collar, a five cint seegar, a lot iv childer. Nay more, a breakfast dish christened f'r ye is on ivry lip. Will I forward th' soot collect?' he says.

“'No, sind th' bill to me mother,' says th' boy. 'An' meet me in th' park at tin,' he says.

“So 'tis planned to seize th' throne, but it comes to nawthin'.”

“Why's that?” asked Mr. Hennessy.

“F'r th' same reason that the Irish rivolution failed, th' polis stopped it. Th' con-spirators met in th' park an' were nailed be a park polisman. They didn't run in th' boy, but left him alone in th' place which was where his father wanst fought a battle. As he shtands there coughin' he begins to hear voices iv soops that followed th' ol' Impror. 'Comrade' says wan. 'Give me ye'er hand.' 'I can't,' says another. 'I haven't wan left.' 'Where's me leg?' 'Sarch me.' 'I've lost me voice.' 'Me mind is shot away.' 'Reach me some wather.' 'Pass th' can.' 'A horse is settin' on me chest.' 'What's that? They'se a batthry iv artillery on me.' 'I've broke something. What is it?' 'I cannot move me leg.' 'Curses on the Cavalry.' 'Have ye got th' time?' 'Oh me knee, how it aches me.' 'Ha ha. Ha ha. Ha ha. Ha ha.' 'Veev, th' Impror.' 'Right about face, shouldher ar-rms, right shouldher shift arms. March.' A harsh, metallic voice in the distance: 'Gin-rals, leftnant Gin'rals, officers, sooz-officers, an' men—.' 'Tis th' boy's father. Th' boy pulls out his soord an' says he: 'Come on, let's fight. Play away there band. Blow fife and banners wave. Lave me at thim. Come on, come on!' an' he rushes out an' makes a stab at an Austhreech regimint that's come up to be dhrilled. Thin he undherstands 'twas all a dhream with him an' he raysumes his ol' job. In th' next act he dies.”

“That's a good act,” said Mr. Hennessy.

“'Tis fine. In Austhree where this happened whin a man dies ivrybody comes in to see him. Ye meet a frind on th' sthreet an' he says: 'Come on over an see Harrigan jump off.' So whin th' la-ad is r-ready f'r to go out ivry body gathers in his room. 'Tis a fash'nable ivint, like th' Horse Show. Among those prisint is his mother. She's a frivolous ol' loon, this Marie Louisa, that was Napolyon's sicond wife, though between you an' me, Father Kelly has niver reconized her as such, th' Impror havin' a wife livin' that was as tough as they make thim. But annyhow she was there. She hadn't done much f'r her son, but she come to see him off with siv'ral ladies that loved him an' others. Bein' a busy an' fashn'able woman she cudden't raymimber his name. At times she called him 'Frank' an' thin 'Fronzwah' an' 'Fritz' an' 'Ferdynand'—'twas a name beginnin' with 'f' she knew that—but he f'rgive her an' ast somewan to r-read to him. 'What shall it be?' says a gin'ral. 'R-read about th' time I was christened,' says th' boy. An' th' gin'ral r-reads: 'At iliven o'clock at th' church iv Nothre Dame in th' prisince iv th' followin' princes—,' 'Cut out th' princes,' says th' la-ad. 'An' kings—' 'F'rget th' kings,' says th' lad. 'Th' son iv th' Impror—' 'He's dead,' says th' doctor. 'Put on his white soot,' says th' Main Thing among th' Austhreeches that was again him fr'm th' beginnin'. An' there ye ar-re.”

“Is that all?” asked Mr. Hennessy.

“That's all,” said Mr. Dooley.

“He died?”

“He did.”

“But he was sthrong r-right up to th' end.”

“He was that. None sthronger.”

“An' what?” asked Mr. Hennessy, “did they do with th' soot iv clothes he ordhered fr'm th' tailor?”