―Lord love a duck, he said, look at what I’m standing drinks to!
Cold water and gingerpop! Two fellows that would suck whisky off a sore leg.
He has some bloody horse up his sleeve for the Gold cup. A dead snip.
―Zinfandel is it? Nosey Flynn asked.
Tom Rochford spilt powder from a twisted paper into the water set before him.
―That cursed dyspepsia, he said before drinking.
―Breadsoda is very good, Davy Byrne said.
Tom Rochford nodded and drank.
―Is it Zinfandel?
―Say nothing, Bantam Lyons winked. I’m going to plunge five bob on my own.
―Tell us if you’ re worth your salt and be damned