over an' thrun bricks at him. 'Twas gr-reat sport.

"About four in th' afthernoon Schwartzmeister's band come up Ar-rchey
Road, playin' 'Th' Watch on th' Rhine.' Whin it got near Gavin's, big
Peter Nolan tuk a runnin' jump, an' landed feet first in th' big bass
dhrum. Th' man with th' dhrum walloped him over th' head with th'
dhrum-stick, an' Dorsey Quinn wint over an' tuk a slide trombone away
fr'm the musician an' clubbed th' bass dhrum man with it. Thin we all
wint over, an' ye niver see th' like in ye'er born days. Th' las' I
see iv th' band it was goin' down th' road towards th' slough with a
mob behind it, an' all th' polis foorce fr'm Deerin' Sthreet afther
th' mob. Th' la-ads collected th' horns an' th' dhrums, an' that
started th' Ar-rchey Road brass band. Little Mike Doyle larned to play
'Th' Rambler fr'm Clare' beautifully on what they call a pickle-e-o
befure they sarved a rayplivin writ on him.

"We cast twinty-wan hundherd votes f'r Duggan, an' they was on'y five
hundherd votes in th' precinct. We'd cast more, but th' tickets give
out. They was tin votes in th' box f'r Schwartzmeister whin we counted
up; an' I felt that mortified I near died, me bein' precinct captain,
an' res-sponsible. 'What 'll we do with thim? Out th' window,' says I.
Just thin Dorsey's nanny-goat that died next year put her head through
th' dure. 'Monica,' says Dorsey (he had pretty names for all his
goats), 'Monica, are ye hungry,' he says, 'ye poor dear?' Th' goat
give him a pleadin' look out iv her big brown eyes. 'Can't I make ye
up a nice supper?' says Dorsey. 'Do ye like paper?' he says. 'Would ye
like to help desthroy a Dutchman,' he says, 'an' perform a sarvice f'r
ye'er counthry?' he says. Thin he wint out in th' next room, an' come
back with a bottle iv catsup; an' he poured it on th' Schwartzmeister
ballots, an' Monica et thim without winkin'.