like that without dung. Household slops. Loam, what is this that is? The
hens in the next garden: their droppings are very good top dressing. Best
of all though are the cattle, especially when they are fed on those
oilcakes. Mulch of dung. Best thing to clean ladies' kid gloves. Dirty
cleans. Ashes too. Reclaim the whole place. Grow peas in that corner
there. Lettuce. Always have fresh greens then. Still gardens have their
drawbacks. That bee or bluebottle here Whitmonday.

He walked on. Where is my hat, by the way? Must have put it back on the
peg. Or hanging up on the floor. Funny I don't remember that. Hallstand
too full. Four umbrellas, her raincloak. Picking up the letters. Drago's
shopbell ringing. Queer I was just thinking that moment. Brown
brillantined hair over his collar. Just had a wash and brushup. Wonder
have I time for a bath this morning. Tara street. Chap in the paybox
there got away James Stephens, they say. O'Brien.

Deep voice that fellow Dlugacz has. Agendath what is it? Now, my miss.
Enthusiast.

He kicked open the crazy door of the jakes. Better be careful not to get
these trousers dirty for the funeral. He went in, bowing his head under
the low lintel. Leaving the door ajar, amid the stench of mouldy limewash
and stale cobwebs he undid his braces. Before sitting down he peered
through a chink up at the nextdoor windows. The king was in his
countinghouse. Nobody.

Asquat on the cuckstool he folded out his paper, turning its pages over
on his bared knees. Something new and easy. No great hurry. Keep it a
bit. Our prize titbit: MATCHAM'S MASTERSTROKE. Written by Mr Philip
Beaufoy, Playgoers' Club, London. Payment at the rate of one guinea a