A Winter Night
Any of the Archey Road cars that got out of the barns at all were pulled by teams of four horses, and the snow hung over the shoulders of the drivers’ big bearskin coats like the eaves of an old-fashioned house on the blizzard night. There was hardly a soul in the road from the red bridge, west, when Mr. McKenna got laboriously off the platform of his car and made for the sign of somebody’s celebrated Milwaukee beer over Mr. Dooley’s tavern. Mr. Dooley, being a man of sentiment, arranges his drinks to conform with the weather. Now anybody who knows anything at all knows that a drop of “J.J.” and a whisper (subdued) of hot water and a lump of sugar and lemon peel (if you care for lemon peel) and nutmeg (if you are a “jood “) is a drink calculated to tune a man’s heart to the song of the wind slapping a beer-sign upside down and the snow drifting in under the door. Mr. Dooley was drinking this mixture behind his big stove when Mr. McKenna came in.
“Bad night, Jawn,” said Mr. Dooley.
“It is that,” said Mr. McKenna.
“Blowin’ an’ storming’, yes,” said Mr. Dooley. “There hasn’ been a can in tonight but wan, an’ that was a pop bottle. Is the snow-ploughs out, I dinnaw?”
“They are,” said Mr. McKenna.
“I suppose Doherty is dhrivin’,” said Mr. Dooley. “He’s a good dhriver. They do say he do be wan iv the best dhrivers on th’ road. I’ve heerd that th’ prisident is dead gawn on him. He’s me cousin. Ye can’t tell much about what a man ’ll be fr’m what th’ kid is. That there Doherty was th’ worst omadhon iv a boy that iver I knowed. He niver cud larn his a-ah-bee, abs. But see what he made iv himsilf! Th’ best dhriver on th’ road; an’, by dad, ’tis not twinty to wan he won’t be stharter befure he dies. ’Tis in th’ fam’ly to make their names. There niver was anny fam’ly in th’ ol’ counthry that turned out more priests than th’ Dooleys. By gar, I believe we hol’ th’ champeenship iv th’ wurruld. At M’nooth th’ profissor that called th’ roll got so fr’m namin’ th’ Dooley la-ads that he came near bein’ tur-rned down on th’ cha-arge that he was whistlin’ at vespers. His mouth, d’ye mind, took that there shape fr’m sayin’ ‘Dooley,’ ‘Dooley,’ that he’d looked as if he was whistlin’. D’ye mind? Dear, oh dear, ’tis th’ divvle’s own fam’ly f’r religion.”
Mr. McKenna was about to make a jeering remark to the effect that the alleged piety of the Dooley family had not penetrated to the Archey Road representative, when a person, evidently of wayfaring habits, entered and asked for alms. Mr. Dooley arose, and, picking a half-dollar from the till, handed it to the visitor with great unconcern. The departure of the wayfarer with profuse thanks was followed by a space of silence.
“Well, Jawn,” said Mr. Dooley.
“What did you give the hobo?” asked Mr. McKenna.
“Half a dollar,” said Mr. Dooley.
“And what for?”
“Binivolence,” said Mr. Dooley, with a seraphic smile.
“Well,” said Mr. McKenna, “I should say that was benevolence.”
“Well,” said Mr. Dooley, “’tis a bad night out, an’ th’ poor divvle looked that miserable it brought th’ tears to me eyes, an’”—
“But,” said Mr. McKenna, “that ain’t any reason why you should give half a dollar to every tramp who comes in.”
“Jawn,” said Mr. Dooley, “I know th’ ma-an. He spinds all his money at Schneider’s, down th’ block.”
“What of that?” asked Mr. McKenna.
“Oh, nawthin’,” said Mr. Dooley, “on’y I hope Herman won’t thry to bite that there coin. If he does”—