His Native Doric
―The moon, professor MacHugh said. He forgot Hamlet.
― That mantles the vista far and wide and wait till the glowing orb of the moon shines forth to irradiate her silver effulgence.
―O! Mr Dedalus cried, giving vent to to a hopeless groan, shite and onions! That’ll do, Ned. Life is too short.
He took off his silk hat and, blowing out impatiently his bushy moustache, welshcombed his hair with raking fingers.
Ned Lambert tossed the newspaper aside, chuckling with delight. An instant after a hoarse bark of laughter burst over professor MacHugh’s unshaven blackspectacled face.
―Doughy Daw! he cried.
What Wetherup Said
All very fine to jeer at it now in cold print but it goes down like hot cake that stuff. He was in the bakery line too wasn’t he? Why they call him Doughy Daw. Feathered his nest well anyhow. Daughter engaged to that chap in the inland revenue office with the motor. Hooked that nicely. Entertainments open house. Big blow out. Wetherup always said that. Get a grip of them by the stomach.
The inner door was opened violently and a scarlet beaked face, crested by a comb of feathery hair, thrust itself in. The bold blue eyes stared about them and the harsh voice asked:
―What is it?