―Devil a much, says I. There is a bloody big foxy thief beyond by the garrison church at the corner of Chicken Lane⁠—old Troy was just giving me a wrinkle about him⁠—lifted any God’s quantity of tea and sugar to pay three bob a week said he had a farm in the county Down off a hop of my thumb by the name of Moses Herzog over there near Heytesbury street.

―Circumcised! says Joe.

―Ay, says I. A bit off the top. An old plumber named Geraghty. I’m hanging on to his taw now for the past fortnight and I can’t get a penny out of him.

―That the lay you’re on now? says Joe.