Ulysses
more or less.
All kinds of Utopian plans were flashing through his
(B’s) busy brain, education (the genuine article), literature,
journalism, prize titbits, up to date billing, concert tours in
English watering resorts packed with hydros and seaside
theatres, turning money away, duets in Italian with the ac-
cent perfectly true to nature and a quantity of other things,
no necessity, of course, to tell the world and his wife from
the housetops about it, and a slice of luck. An opening was
all was wanted. Because he more than suspected he had his
father’s voice to bank his hopes on which it was quite on the
cards he had so it would be just as well, by the way no harm,
to trail the conversation in the direction of that particular
red herring just to.
The cabby read out of the paper he had got hold of that
the former viceroy, earl Cadogan, had presided at the cab-
drivers’ association dinner in London somewhere. Silence
with a yawn or two accompanied this thrilling announce-
ment. Then the old specimen in the corner who appeared
to have some spark of vitality left read out that sir Anthony
MacDonnell had left Euston for the chief secretary’s lodge
or words to that effect. To which absorbing piece of intelli-
gence echo answered why.
—Give us a squint at that literature, grandfather, the
ancient mariner put in, manifesting some natural impa-
tience.
—And welcome, answered the elderly party thus ad-
dressed.
The sailor lugged out from a case he had a pair of green-