image of a queen of regal port, scion of the house of Brunswick, Victoria her name, Her Most Excellent Majesty, by grace of God of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and of the British dominions beyond the sea, queen, defender of the faith, Empress of India, even she, who bore rule, a victress over many peoples, the wellbeloved, for they knew and loved her from the rising of the sun to the going down thereof, the pale, the dark, the ruddy and the ethiop.
―What’s that bloody freemason doing, says the citizen, prowling up and down outside?
―What’s that? says Joe.
―Here you are, says Alf, chucking out the rhino. Talking about hanging. I’ll show you something you never saw. Hangmen’s letters. Look at here.
So he took a bundle of wisps of letters and envelopes out of his pocket.
―Are you codding? says I.
―Honest injun, says Alf. Read them.
So Joe took up the letters.
―Who are you laughing at? says Bob Doran.
So I saw there was going to be bit of a dust. Bob’s a queer chap when the porter’s up in him so says I just to make talk:
―How’s Willy Murray those times, Alf?
―I don’t know, says Alf. I saw him just now in Capel Street with Paddy Dignam. Only I was running after that …
―You what? says Joe, throwing down the letters. With who?
―With Dignam, says Alf.