begob what was it only that bloody old pantaloon Denis Breen in his bath slippers with two bloody big books tucked under his oxter and the wife hotfoot after him, unfortunate wretched woman trotting like a poodle. I thought Alf would split.
―Look at him, says he. Breen. He’s traipsing all round Dublin with a postcard someone sent him with u. p. : up on it to take a li …
And he doubled up.
―Take a what? says I.
―Libel action, says he, for ten thousand pounds.
―O hell! says I.
The bloody mongrel began to growl that’d put the fear of God in you seeing something was up but the citizen gave him a kick in the ribs.
― Bi i dho husht, says he.
―Who? says Joe.
―Breen, says