when he's under the influence.

— Who said Christ is good ?

— I beg your parsnips, says Alf.

— Is that a good Christ, says Bob Doran, to take away poor little Willy Dignam ?

— Ah, well, says Alf, trying to pass it off. He's over all his troubles. But Bob Doran shouts out of him.

— He's a bloody ruffian, I say, to take away poor little Willy Dignam.

Terry came down and tipped him the wink to keep quiet, that they didn't want that kind of talk in a respectable licensed premises. And Bob Doran starts doing the weeps about Paddy Dignam, true as you're there.

— The finest man, says he, snivelling, the finest purest character.

The tear is bloody near your eye. Talking through his bloody hat. Fitter for himRighto, any old time. _Laetabuntur in cubilibus suis._* You coming long ? Whisper, who the sooty hell's the johnny in the black duds ? Hush ! Sinned against the light and even now that day is at hand when he shall come to judge the world by fire. Pflaap! _Ut implerentur scripturae._* Strike up a ballad. Then outspake medical Dick to his comrade medical Davy. Christicle, who's this excrement yellow gospeller on the Merrion hall? Elijah is coming. Washed in the Blood of the Lamb. Come on, you winefizzling ginsizzling booseguzzling existences! Come on, you dog-gone, bullnecked, beetlebrowed, hogjowled, peanutbrained, weaseleyed fourflushers, false alarms and excess baggage! Come on, you triple extract of infamy! Alexander J. Christ Dowie,* that's yanked to glory most[407] half this planet from 'Frisco