of Kildare after he set fire to Cashel cathedral. You know that one? I’m bloody sorry I did it, says he, but I declare to God I thought the archbishop was inside. He mightn’t like it, though. What? God, I’ll tell him anyhow. That was the great earl, the Fitzgerald Mor. Hot members they were all of them, the Geraldines.
The horses he passed started nervously under their slack harness. He slapped a piebald haunch quivering near him and cried:
―Woa, sonny!
He turned to J. J. O’Molloy and asked:
―Well, Jack. What is it? What’s the trouble? Wait a while. Hold hard.
With gaping mouth and head far back he stood still and, after an instant, sneezed loudly.
―Chow! he said. Blast you!
―The dust from those sacks, J. J. O’Molloy said politely.
―No, Ned Lambert gasped, I caught a … cold night before … blast your soul … night before last … and there was a hell of a lot of draught …
He held his handkerchief ready for the coming …
―I was … this morning … poor little … what do you call him … Chow! … Mother of Moses!
Tom Rochford took the top disk from the pile he clasped against his claret waistcoat.
―See? he said. Say it’s turn six. In here, see. Turn Now On.
He slid