Ulysses
or a platter of tripes with a bare tester in his purse he could
always bring himself off with his tongue, some randy quip
he had from a punk or whatnot that every mother’s son of
them would burst their sides. The other, Costello that is,
hearing this talk asked was it poetry or a tale. Faith, no, he
says, Frank (that was his name), ‘tis all about Kerry cows
that are to be butchered along of the plague. But they can go
hang, says he with a wink, for me with their bully beef, a
pox on it. There’s as good fish in this tin as ever came out of
it and very friendly he offered to take of some salty sprats
that stood by which he had eyed wishly in the meantime
and found the place which was indeed the chief design of
his embassy as he was sharpset. Mort aux vaches, says Frank
then in the French language that had been indentured to a
brandyshipper that has a winelodge in Bordeaux and he
spoke French like a gentleman too. From a child this Frank
had been a donought that his father, a headborough, who
could ill keep him to school to learn his letters and the use
of the globes, matriculated at the university to study the
mechanics but he took the bit between his teeth like a raw
colt and was more familiar with the justiciary and the par-
ish beadle than with his volumes. One time he would be a
playactor, then a sutler or a welsher, then nought would
keep him from the bearpit and the cocking main, then he
was for the ocean sea or to hoof it on the roads with the ro-
many folk, kidnapping a squire’s heir by favour of moonlight
or fecking maids’ linen or choking chicken behind a hedge.
He had been off as many times as a cat has lives and back
again with naked pockets as many more to his father the