Читать книгу Mr. Dooley in Peace and in War - Finley Peter Dunne - Страница 7

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"Iv coorse, he's Irish," said Mr. Dooley. "Th' Fitz-Hughs an' th' McHughs an' th' McKeoughs is not far apart. I have a cousin be th' name iv McKeough, an' like as not th' gin'ral is a relation iv mine."

"If I was you, I'd write him an' see," said Mr. Hennessy. "He's a gr-reat ma-an."

"He is so," said Mr. Dooley. "He is that. Wan iv th' gr-reatest. An' why shudden't he be with thim two names? They'se pothry in both iv thim. Fitz-Hugh Lee! Did ye iver see a pitcher iv him? A fat ma-an, with a head like a football an' a neck big enough to pump blood into his brain an' keep it fr'm starvin'. White-haired an' r-red-faced. Th' kind iv ma-an that can get mad in ivry vein in his body. Whin he's hot, I bet ye his face looks like a fire in a furniture facthry. Whin a ma-an goes pale with r-rage, look out f'r a knife in th' back. But, whin he flames up so that th' perspi-ration sizzles on his brow, look out f'r hand an' feet an' head an' coupling pins an' rapid-firin' guns. Fitz can be ca'm whin they'se annything to be ca'm about, but he can't wait. If he was a waiter, he'd be wurrukin' at th' thrade. Look at th' jaw iv him! It's like a paving block.

"Does Fitz believe in di-plomacy? Not him. He sets there in his office in Havana, smokin' a good see-gar, an' a boy comes in an' tells him they've jugged an American citizen. He jams his hat down on his eyes, an' r-rushes over to where Gin'ral Blanco has his office. 'Look here,' says he, 'ye pizenous riptile,' he says, 'if ye don't lave me counthryman out iv th' bull-pen in fifteen minyits be th' watch,' he says, 'I'll take ye be th' hair iv th' head an' pull ye fr'm th' corner iv Halsted Sthreet to th' r-red bridge,' he says. 'Lave us debate this,' says Blanco. 'I'll debate nawthin', says Fitz. 'Hurry up, or I'll give ye a slap,' he says. 'R-run over an' wake up th' loot at th' station, an' let thim Americans out, or,' he says, 'we'll go to the flure,' he says.

"That's Fitz. He's ca'm, an' he waits part iv th' time. That's whin he's asleep. But, as soon as his eyes opins, his face begins to flare up like wan iv thim r-round stoves in a woodman's shanty whin rosiny wood is thrun in. An' fr'm that time on till he's r-ready to tur-rn in an' sleep peaceful an' quite—not like a lamb full iv vigetable food, but like a line that's wur-rked ha-ard an' et meat—he niver stops rampin' an' ragin'. Ye don't hear iv Fitz lookin' worn with th' sthruggle. Ye don't r-read iv him missin' anny meals. No one fears that Fitz will break down undher th' suspinse. That ain't in th' breed. He's another kind iv a man. He hasn't got th' time to be tired an' worrid. He needs food, an' he has it; an' he needs sleep, an' he takes it; an' he needs fightin', an' he gets it. That's Fitz. They ain't such a lot iv diff'rence between th' bravest man in the wurruld an' th' cow'rdliest. Not such a lot. It ain't a question iv morality, Hinnissy. I've knowed men that wint to church ivry Sundah an' holyday reg'lar, an' give to th' poor an' loved their neighbors, an' they wudden't defind their wives against a murdherer. An' I've knowed th' worst villyuns on earth that'd die in their thracks to save a stranger's child fr'm injury. 'Tis a question iv how th' blood is pumped. Whin a man shows th' sthrain, whin he gets thin an' pale an' worrid in th' time f'r fightin', he's mighty near a cow'rd. But, whin his face flames an' his neck swells an' his eyes look like a couple iv ilicthric lamps again a cyclone sky, he'd lead a forlorn hope acrost th' battlemints iv hell."