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ious clock. Two. Pub clock five minutes fast. Time going on.
Hands moving. Two. Not yet.
His midriff yearned then upward, sank within him,
yearned more longly, longingly.
Wine.
He smellsipped the cordial juice and, bidding his throat
strongly to speed it, set his wineglass delicately down.
—Yes, he said. He’s the organiser in point of fact.
No fear: no brains.
Nosey Flynn snuffled and scratched. Flea having a good
square meal.
—He had a good slice of luck, Jack Mooney was telling
me, over that boxingmatch Myler Keogh won again that
soldier in the Portobello barracks. By God, he had the little
kipper down in the county Carlow he was telling me ...
Hope that dewdrop doesn’t come down into his glass.
No, snuffled it up.
—For near a month, man, before it came off. Suck-
ing duck eggs by God till further orders. Keep him off the
boose, see? O, by God, Blazes is a hairy chap.
Davy Byrne came forward from the hindbar in tuck-
stitched shirtsleeves, cleaning his lips with two wipes of
his napkin. Herring’s blush. Whose smile upon each fea-
ture plays with such and such replete. Too much fat on the
parsnips.
—And here’s himself and pepper on him, Nosey Flynn
said. Can you give us a good one for the Gold cup?
—I’m off that, Mr Flynn, Davy Byrne answered. I never
put anything on a horse.