Doing the rapparee and Rory of the hill. But, begob, Joe was equal to the occasion.
―I think the markets are on a rise, says he, sliding his hand down his fork.
So begob the citizen claps his paw on his knee and he says:
―Foreign wars is the cause of it.
And says Joe, sticking his thumb in his pocket:
―It’s the Russians wish to tyrannise.
―Arrah, give over your bloody codding, Joe, says I, I’ve a thirst on me I wouldn’t sell for half a crown.
―Give it a name, citizen, says Joe.
―Wine of the country, says he.
―What’s yours? says Joe.
―Ditto MacAnaspey, says I.
―Three pints, Terry, says Joe. And how’s the old heart, citizen? says he.
―Never better, a chara , says he. What Garry? Are we going to win? Eh?
And with that he took the bloody old towser by the scruff of the neck and, by Jesus, he near throttled him.
The figure seated on a large boulder at the foot of a round tower was that of a broadshouldered deepchested stronglimbed frankeyed redhaired freely freckled shaggybearded widemouthed largenosed longheaded deepvoiced barekneed brawnyhanded hairylegged ruddyfaced