The Cotton Factory Times. — 1900-11-30 (Manchester, Greater Manchester, England)

EMPIRE" DETERMINES TO "RISK"  SUICIDE. BY CON CORRIGAN. There should have bin a discussion on" Picketing" at the Cosemypollyton Club on Monday night, an' I went there on the pressin' invitation of Flannagban an "Empire" to take part in the denunciation of in-Justice Farwell. Begorra, I hadn't bin there too minnits when I seen the debate was " off." Sorra word could be heard among the babel of tongue harm "beer," " arseruo," "hope," "sulphur," "poison," an such like terms. 'Empire's" a great beer drinker, an' he was up in arms agin what he called the "Teetotal Plot," to I frighten men out of their rights. "Aw con see through it," sea he. "They'n tried for t' convert us to their own miserable cowd-water ideas, un they'n failed; they'n tried for't force us hi law, un it didno' come off; an' neaw they'n bin an' squared folk fort stuff us up wi' Bich twaddle abotiut manic in th' hops an' nitro-glissyreen in th' eakkyrine au' inch like. Awin a Free Briton, aw am; en' east sup ale as lung as aw live. It's never kilt ml yet, an' aw dunno think it ever will. Bur aw know this, ut if aw took to stone pop an' lemonade Cl' wife 'ud soon be hawin' a stunt o' black." Flannaghan, calm an' collected (for he drinks " Irish " without variation—or water) was quietly enjoyin' his pal's oration, an' he chipped in wid the remark: "Now, Ink here, 'Empire,' ould pal, ye know I love ye as a brother. Sayriously speakin', do ye niver feel that tired feelin" that they talk about, an' a flabbiness about your feet, an' a bluenessish sort or sinsation about yer finger-incls ?" "Do I Ilowdham as like," replied" Empire," contirripc.hously. "Aa feel 'blue' enoo at times, bur it's when aa've bin beawt lotion' for a day or two." " But," continued Flan, " Dectbor Reynolds says—" "Reynolds, be blowed," interrupted "Empire." " Aa'rn a Briton, ea ; an aril' claim my reels as lung as taa'm wick. Teetotal bogey-mons' winno' do me cant o' my fair share o' kimic." " Begorra, yer thrue grit, annyway," see Fiannaghau. "But for ould acquaintance sake just thry a Gobbler of Irish; it'll warm the ooe.kles of yer heart, an' the divil a grain o' portion there is in a hogshead of it." " Sitthe, Flan, as, wouldno' be bothert wi' thi 'cobblers' au' 'threepennortb.s.' When aa sup as sup—au' aw want summat for't' sup at. If tha want's pay for a drink sail ha' a pint." "A pint o' whiskey?" asked Flan, in alarm. "Neaw," said " Empire. " Tha'sgetten whiskey on th' brain. A pint o' ale—beer—glorious beer— melt an' drink—owt abeant Reynolds's." Flannaghan called for drinks, an' "Empire," lookin' lovingly at his perseouted beverage, wished us "good health," an' took a good swig. " Empire " cooled down a bit either this, an' I thought mebbe they'd start the " picketin' " debate, but just then in kern a man named Abel Abbott, wan o' the teetotal mimbers of the club, an' sat deawn beside us. He called for a small lemon, an' tried to be sociable—an' they say that's very hard work for a teetotaller, He med an unfortunate start, for he began to talk abeaut the inquest on the victims of the "poisonous beer." " Whor't talkin' abeitat ?" demanded "Empire." fiercely. "There is no sich thing as poisonous beer. There is moos.r peison i' that shiverin' lookin' stuff as tha's getten in front o' thee nor there  _ is i't' biggest brewery 1' England." "Now, now, 'Empire,' do ba rational, and talk ...  sense," said Abbott. "What's good o' tawkin' sense to a teetotaller," snarled "Empire." "Aw reckon tha'rt in this conspiracy—an' aw shouldno wonder if Sir Wilfred Lawson's at th' bottom of it." Nov, look hare," said Abbott, quietly. "I put it to you, as a sensible man, and the father of a family, have you any right to fly in the face of the testimony of the most eminent nien of the day, and the proof as shown by the bodies of the victims of this terrible national evil ?" "Ay ! theere yo' are! Aa've yerd that on th' Market Square till aw'm sick on it. Th' national evil! Sitthe, Abbott, aa believe tha'rt nobbnt a member o' this club for spite. just for t' aggreyvate us. Aa reckon tha thinks tha'rt he.vin' great fun when we gotten o'ert line, an' tha' sets theer wi thi smo' lemons thinkin' what foes we are? Why, moo, tha' doesno know what happiness is. Tha' con laff, but as goo in for drink from a brewery, an' not from a gasheause. It's a wonder some on yo' &nine' bawst." I called the waiter, an' he took the orders, "Empire's being a pint of the "deadly" fluid, as before. He had evidently been imbibing pretty freely before I arrived, for, although his flesh wasn't flabby, an' his skin didn't peel off, ha showed a disposition to peel off his coat to any man (Abbott preferred) who would say another word against the national beverage. "Sitthe, Flan, owd mate, aa'll sup a barrel this week, just for spite thooese • gingerettes.' It's another 'Little England' touch, this is. They'll be tacklin' thy drink nest, Flan. They'll say there's peison in whiskey next. An know there's treason in it—for tha'rt sich a pro-Boer. But, never mind, owd lad—we've swore off that subject, hanno' we? Well, aa'm a pro-Briton, an' a pro. Beer. An' if th' Crowuer Ethould ever it on me, an' co' it suicide, it whine' trouble me. Aa'd wooer dee on ale than live on pop ony day." It was quite evident that many more of the "Cossmypollytons" wor of the same mind as our friend, for they stopped the argument by breaking out into the song "Beer, beer, glorious beer," an' as I kem away to the accompaniment of the lines— _ _