(Staggering as he is pulled away.) God fuck old Bennett! He’s a whitearsed
bugger. I don’t give a shit for him.
(Taking out his notebook.) What’s his name?
(Peering over the crowd.) I just see a car there. If you give me a hand a
Name and address.
(Corny Kelleher, weepers round his hat, a death wreath in his hand, appears
among the bystanders.)
(Quickly.) O, the very man! (He whispers.) Simon Dedalus’ son. A bit
sprung. Get those policemen to move those loafers back.
Night, Mr Kelleher.
(To the watch, with drawling eye.) That’s all right. I know him. Won a
bit on the races. Gold cup. Throwaway. (He laughs.) Twenty to one. Do you
(Turns to the crowd.) Here, what are you all gaping at? Move on out of
(The crowd disperses slowly, muttering, down the lane.)
Leave it to me, sergeant. That’ll be all right. (He laughs, shaking his head.)
We were often as bad ourselves, ay or worse. What? Eh, what?
(Laughs.) I suppose so.
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