little concubine of a wife, and she wagging her tail up the aisle of the chapel with her patent boots on her, no less, and her violets, nice as pie, doing the little lady. Jack Mooney’s sister. And the old prostitute of a mother procuring rooms to street couples. Gob, Jack made him toe the line. Told him if he didn’t patch up the pot, Jesus, he’d kick the shite out of him.

So Terry brought the three pints.

Here, says Joe, doing the honours. Here, citizen.

Slan leat, says he.

Fortune, Joe, says I. Good health, citizen.

Gob, he had his mouth half way down the tumbler already.

Want a small fortune to keep him in drinks.