Little Alf Bergan popped in round the door and hid behind Barney’s snug, squeezed up with the laughing, and who was sitting up there in the corner that I hadn’t seen snoring drunk, blind to the world, only Bob Doran. I didn’t know what was up and Alf kept making signs out of the door. And 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.