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some sponger’s bawdyhouse of retired beauties where age
was no bar off Sheriff street lower would be the best clue
to that equivocal character’s whereabouts for a few days
to come, alternately racking their feelings (the mermaids’)
with sixchamber revolver anecdotes verging on the tropi-
cal calculated to freeze the marrow of anybody’s bones and
mauling their largesized charms betweenwhiles with rough
and tumble gusto to the accompaniment of large potations
of potheen and the usual blarney about himself for as to
who he in reality was let x equal my right name and ad-
dress, as Mr Algebra remarks passim. At the same time he
inwardly chuckled over his gentle repartee to the blood and
ouns champion about his god being a jew. People could put
up with being bitten by a wolf but what properly riled them
was a bite from a sheep. The most vulnerable point too of
tender Achilles. Your god was a jew. Because mostly they
appeared to imagine he came from Carrick-on-Shannon or
somewhereabouts in the county Sligo.
—I propose, our hero eventually suggested after mature
reflection while prudently pocketing her photo, as it’s rath-
er stuffy here you just come home with me and talk things
over. My diggings are quite close in the vicinity. You can’t
drink that stuff. Do you like cocoa? Wait. I’ll just pay this
lot.
The best plan clearly being to clear out, the remainder
being plain sailing, he beckoned, while prudently pocketing
the photo, to the keeper of the shanty who didn’t seem to.
—Yes, that’s the best, he assured Stephen to whom for the
matter of that Brazen Head or him or anywhere else was all