Observations by Mr Dooley | Page 5

premyum.
Occasionally a judge iv th' coort iv appeals walkin' in his sleep meets
another judge, an' they discuss matthers. 'How ar-re ye gettin' on with
th' Cyanide case, judge?' 'I'm makin' fair headway, judge. I r-read part
iv th' vardict iv th' coroner's jury las' year an' nex' month whin th' fishin'
is over, I expict to look into th' indictment. 'Tis a puzzlin' case. Th' man
is not guilty.' 'Well, good bye, judge; I'll see ye in a year or two. Lave
me know how ye're gettin' on. Pleasant dhreams!' An' so they part. Th'
higher up a coort is, th' less they see iv each other. Their office hours
are fr'm a quarther to wan leap years. Ye take a lively lawyer that's
wurruked twinty hours a day suin' sthrect railrood comp'nies an' boost
him onto a high coort an' he can't think out iv a hammock. Th' more
exalted what Hogan calls th' joodicyal station, th' more it's like a
dormitory. Th' years rowl by an' th' tillygraft op'rator that's been
expictin' to sind a rush tillygram through young Cyanide sees his ohms
an' his volts mouldin' an' no wurrud comes fr'm th' coort iv appeals but
th' murmur iv th' chief justice discussin' th' nullification theery. But
wan day, th' decision is wafted down. 'Th' coort finds,' it says, 'that th'
vardict was conthry to th' law an' th' ividince. We seen this fr'm th' first.
It's as plain as th' nose on ye'er face. Th' judge was prejudiced an' th'
jury was ignorant. Th' ividince wasn't sufficient to hang a cat. We
revarse th' decision an' ordher a new thrile that full justice may be done.
We cannot help remarkin' at this time on th' croolty iv subjectin' this
unforchnit man to all these years iv torture an' imprisonment with a
case again' him which we see at a glance durin' th' Mexican war cud not
shtand th' test iv th' law.'
"But whin th' decision is carried to th' pris'ner, th' warden says 'Who?'
'P. Cyanide,' says th' clark iv th' coort. 'He's not here,' says th' warden.
'On consultin' me books, I find a man iv that name left in th' year
sivinty-wan.' 'Did he escape?' 'In a sinse. He's dead.'

"So, Hinnissy, I'd like to be a judge iv a high coort, dhreamin' th' happy
hours away. No hurry, no sthrivin' afther immejet raysults, no sprintin',
no wan hollenin' 'Dooley J. hurry up with that ne exeat,' or 'Dooley,
hand down that opinyion befure th' batthry gives out.' 'Tis th' thrue life
iv aise an' gintlemanly comfort. 'Tis wait till th' clouds rowl by; 'tis time
was meant for slaves; 'tis a long life an' a happy wan. Like th'
Shamrock II, th' coort acts well in stays but can't run befure th' wind. A
jury is f'r hangin' ivry man, but th' high coort says: 'Ye must die, but
take ye'er time about it an' go out th' way ye like.' If I wanted to keep
me money so that me gran'childher might get it f'r their ol' age, I'd
appeal it to th' supreme coort. Oh, th' fine judge I'd make, f'r I can sleep
annywhere, an' I'm niver impatient f'r annywan to get his jooes."
"I don't see," said Mr. Hennessy, "why they have anny juries. Why
don't they thry ivry man before th' supreme coort an' have done with
it?"
"I have a betther way than that," said Mr. Dooley. "Ye see they'e
wurrukin' on time now. I wondher if they wudden't sthep livelier if they
were paid be th' piece."

Sherlock Holmes

Dorsey an' Dugan are havin' throuble," said Mr. Hennessy.
"What about?" asked Mr. Dooley.
"Dorsey," said Mr. Hennessy, "says Dugan stole his dog. They had a
party at Dorsey's an' Dorsey heerd a noise in th' back yard an' wint out
an' see Dugan makin' off with his bull tarryer."
"Ye say he see him do it?"
"Yis, he see him do it."

"Well," said Mr. Dooley, "'twud baffle th' injinooty iv a Sherlock
Holmes."
"Who's Sherlock Holmes?"
"He's th' gr-reatest detictive that iver was in a story book. I've been
r-readin' about him an' if I was a criminal, which I wud be if I had to
wurruk f'r a livin', an' Sherlock Holmes got afther me, I'd go sthraight
to th' station an' give mesilf up. I'd lay th' goods on th' desk an' say:
'Sargeant, put me down in th' hard cage. Sherlock Holmes has jus' see a
man go by in a cab with a Newfoundland dog an' he knows I took th'
spoons.' Ye see, he ain't th' ordh'nry fly cop like Mulcahy that always
runs in th' Schmidt boy f'r ivry crime rayported fr'm stealin' a ham to