Dunphy's corner. Mourning coaches drawn up, drowning their grief.
A pause by the wayside. Tiptop position for a pub. Expect we'll pull up
here on the way back to drink his health. Pass round the consolation.
Elixir of life.

But suppose now it did happen. Would he bleed if a nail say cut him in
the knocking about? He would and he wouldn't, I suppose. Depends on
where. The circulation stops. Still some might ooze out of an artery. It
would be better to bury them in red: a dark red.

In silence they drove along Phibsborough road. An empty hearse
trotted by, coming from the cemetery: looks relieved.

Crossguns bridge: the royal canal.

Water rushed roaring through the sluices. A man stood on his
dropping barge, between clamps of turf. On the towpath by the lock a
slacktethered horse. Aboard of the BUGABU.

Their eyes watched him. On the slow weedy waterway he had floated
on his raft coastward over Ireland drawn by a haulage rope past beds of
reeds, over slime, mudchoked bottles, carrion dogs. Athlone, Mullingar,
Moyvalley, I could make a walking tour to see Milly by the canal. Or cycle
down. Hire some old crock, safety. Wren had one the other day at the
auction but a lady's. Developing waterways. James M'Cann's hobby to row
me o'er the ferry. Cheaper transit. By easy stages. Houseboats. Camping
out. Also hearses. To heaven by water. Perhaps I will without writing.
Come as a surprise, Leixlip, Clonsilla. Dropping down lock by lock to
Dublin. With turf from the midland bogs. Salute. He lifted his brown straw
hat, saluting Paddy Dignam.