Arrah, give over your bloody codding, Joe, says I. I’ve a thirst on me I wouldn’t sell for half a crown.

Give it a name, citizen, says Joe.

Wine of the country, says he.

What’s yours? says Joe.

Ditto MacAnaspey, says I.

Three pints, Terry, says Joe. And how’s the old heart, citizen? says he.

Never better, a chara, says he. What Garry? Are we going to win? Eh?

And with that he took the bloody old towser by the scruff of the neck and, by Jesus, he near throttled him.

The figure seated on a large boulder at the foot of a round tower was that of a broadshouldered