―There are some like that, Davy Byrne said. He’s a safe man, I’d say.
―He’s not too bad, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling it up. He has been known to put his hand down too to help a fellow. Give the devil his due. O, Bloom has his good points. But there’s one thing he’ll never do.
His hand scrawled a dry pen signature beside his grog.
―I know, Davy Byrne said.
―Nothing in black and white, Nosey Flynn said.
Paddy Leonard and Bantam Lyons came in. Tom Rochford followed, a plaining hand on his claret waistcoat.
―Day, Mr Byrne.
―Day, gentlemen.
They paused at the counter.
―Who’s standing? Paddy Leonard asked.
―I’m sitting anyhow, Nosey Flynn answered.
―Well, what’ll it be? Paddy Leonard asked.
―I’ll take a stone ginger, Bantam Lyons said.
―How much? Paddy Leonard cried. Since when, for God’ sake? What’s yours, Tom?
―How is the main drainage? Nosey Flynn asked, sipping.
For answer Tom Rochford pressed his hand to his breastbone and hiccupped.
―Would I trouble you for a glass of fresh water, Mr Byrne? he said.