'I shud say not,' says another. 'He looks like
annybody else.' 'He ain't a hero,' says another. 'Why, annybody cud've
done what he did. I got an eight-year-old boy, an' if he cudden't take a
baseball club an' go in an' bate that Spanish fleet into junk in twinty
minyits I'd call him Alger an' thrade him off f'r a bicycle,' he says.
'I guess that's r-right. They say he was a purty tough man befure he
left Wash'n'ton.' 'Sure he was. Why, so-an'-so-an'-so-an'-so.' 'Ye don't
tell me!' 'Is there annything in that story about his beatin' his poor
ol' aunt an' her iliven childher out iv four dollars?' 'I guess that's
straight. Ye can tell be th' looks iv him he's a mean man. I niver see a
man with squintin' eyes an' white hair that wudden't rob a church!'
'He's a cow'rd, too. Why, he r-run away at th' battle iv Manila.
Ivrybody knows it. I r-read what Joe What's-His-Name wrote--th' br-rave
corryspondint. He says this feller was sick at his stummick an' retired
befure th' Spanish fire. Why, what'd he have to fight but a lot iv ol'
row-boats? A good swimmer with sharp teeth cud've bit his way through
th' whole Spanish fleet. An' he r-run away. I tell ye, it makes me tired
to think iv th' way we abused th' Spanyards not long ago. Why, say, they
done a lot betther thin this fellow Dewey, with his forty or fifty men-
iv-war an' this gran' nation, miles away, standin' shoulder to shoulder
at his back.
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