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caught a cold in the park. The gate was open.
YOU CAN DO IT!The editor laid a nervous hand on Stephen’s shoulder.
—I want you to write something for me, he said. Some-
thing with a bite in it. You can do it. I see it in your face. In
the lexicon of youth ...
See it in your face. See it in your eye. Lazy idle little
schemer.
—Foot and mouth disease! the editor cried in scornful
invective. Great nationalist meeting in Borris-in-Ossory.
All balls! Bulldosing the public! Give them something with
a bite in it. Put us all into it, damn its soul. Father, Son and
Holy Ghost and Jakes M’Carthy.
—We can all supply mental pabulum, Mr O’Madden
Burke said.
Stephen raised his eyes to the bold unheeding stare.
—He wants you for the pressgang, J. J. O’Molloy said.
THE GREAT GALLAHER—You can do it, Myles Crawford repeated, clenching his
hand in emphasis. Wait a minute. We’ll paralyse Europe as
Ignatius Gallaher used to say when he was on the shaugh-
raun, doing billiardmarking in the Clarence. Gallaher, that
was a pressman for you. That was a pen. You know how he