'Why,' he says, ''tis scand'lous th' way servants act,' he says. 'Mrs.
Riley has hystrics,' he says. 'An' ivry two or three nights whin I come
home,' he says, 'I have to win a fight again' a cook with a stove lid
befure I can move me family off th' fr-ront stoop,' he says. 'We threat
thim well too,' he says. 'I gave th' las' wan we had fifty cints an' a
cook book at Chris'mas an' th' next day she left befure breakfast,' he
says. 'What naytionalties do ye hire?' says I. 'I've thried thim all,'
he says, 'an',' he says, 'I'll say this in shame,' he says, 'that th'
Irish ar-re th' worst,' he says. 'Well,' says I, 'ye need have no
shame,' I says, 'f'r'tis on'y th' people that ar-re good servants
that'll niver be masthers,' I says. 'Th' Irish ar-re no good as servants
because they ar-re too good,' I says. 'Th' Dutch ar-re no good because
they aint good enough. No matther how they start they get th' noodle
habit. I had wan, wanst, an' she got so she put noodles in me tay,' I
says. 'Th' Swedes ar-re all right but they always get marrid th' sicond
day. Ye'll have a polisman at th' dure with a warrant f'r th' arrist iv
ye'er cook if ye hire a Boheemyan,' I says. 'Coons'd be all right but
they're liable f'r to hand ye ye'er food in ragtime, an' if ye ordher
pork-chops f'r dinner an' th' hall is long,'tis little ye'll have to eat
whin th' platter's set down,' I says. 'No,' says I, 'they'se no
naytionality now livin' in this counthry that're nathral bor-rn
servants,' I says. 'If ye want to save throuble,' I says, 'ye'll import
ye'er help. They'se a race iv people livin' in Cinthral Africa that'd be
jus' r-right. They niver sleep, tkey can carry twice their weight on
their backs, they have no frinds, they wear no clothes, they can't read,
they can't dance an' they don't dhrink. Th' fact is they're thoroughly
oneddycated. If ye cud tache thim to cook an' take care iv childher
they'd be th' best servants,' says I. 'An' what d'ye call thim"?' says
he. 'I f'rget,' says I. An' he wint away mad."