bite to eat. The other evening we went down to Chinatown and
in one of those Oriantal joints that hand out Chop Suey in real
china bowls with the Jersey City dragoons on 'em, we struck a
dish that hit Casey just right.

"Mither av Moses," says Casey, "this is shure the atein fer ye;
but what's thot dilicate little tid-bit o' brown mate?"

"I don't know," says I.

"Oi'll find out," says Casey. "Just listen t'me spake that
heathen's language."

"Here, boy," he hollers, "me likee, what you call um?"

The Chink stares blankly at Casey. Casey looks puzzled, then
he winks at me. Rubbing his hand over the place where the rest
of the meat had gone, he says:

"Quack-quack?"

A gleam shot into the Chink's almond eyes and he says:

"No. No. Bow-wow."

It took seven of us to hold Casey, he felt that bad. But that
wasn't a patchin' to the time we had dinner with a rich friend
o' ours and Casey was seated right next to the nicest little old
lady y'ever saw. . . .