Ulysses
T. E. I. as to whether the eighth or the ninth of March was
the correct date of the birth of Ireland’s patron saint. In the
course of the argument cannonballs, scimitars, boomer-
angs, blunderbusses, stinkpots, meatchoppers, umbrellas,
catapults, knuckledusters, sandbags, lumps of pig iron were
resorted to and blows were freely exchanged. The baby po-
liceman, Constable MacFadden, summoned by special
courier from Booterstown, quickly restored order and with
lightning promptitude proposed the seventeenth of the
month as a solution equally honourable for both contend-
ing parties. The readywitted ninefooter’s suggestion at once
appealed to all and was unanimously accepted. Constable
MacFadden was heartily congratulated by all the F.O.T.E.I.,
several of whom were bleeding profusely. Commendatore
Beninobenone having been extricated from underneath the
presidential armchair, it was explained by his legal adviser
Avvocato Pagamimi that the various articles secreted in his
thirtytwo pockets had been abstracted by him during the
affray from the pockets of his junior colleagues in the hope
of bringing them to their senses. The objects (which includ-
ed several hundred ladies’ and gentlemen’s gold and silver
watches) were promptly restored to their rightful owners
and general harmony reigned supreme.
Quietly, unassumingly Rumbold stepped on to the scaf-
fold in faultless morning dress and wearing his favourite
flower, the Gladiolus Cruentus. He announced his presence
by that gentle Rumboldian cough which so many have tried
(unsuccessfully) to imitate—short, painstaking yet withal
so characteristic of the man. The arrival of the worldre-