after wicklow lane the window of madame doyle, court dress milliner, stopped him. he stood looking in at the two puckers stripped to their pelts and putting up their props. from the sidemirrors two mourning masters dignam gaped silently. myler keogh, dublin's pet lamb, will meet sergeant-major bennett, the portobello bruiser, for a purse of fifty sovereigns, god, that'd be a good pucking match to see. myler keogh, that's the chap sparring out to him with the green sash. two bar entrance, soldiers half price. i could easy do a bunk on ma. master dignam on his left turned as he turned. that's me in mourning. when is it? may the twenty-second. sure, the blooming thing is all over. he turned to the right and on his right master dignam turned, his cap awry, his collar sticking up. buttoning it down, his chin lifted, he saw the image of marie kendall, charming soubrette, beside the two puckers. one of them mots that do be in the packets of fags stoer smokes that his old fellow welted hell out of him for one time he found out.
master dignam got his collar down and dawdled on. the best pucker going for strength was fitzsimons. one puck in the wind from that fellow would knock you into the middle of next week, man. but the best pucker for science was jem corbet before fitzsimons knocked the stuffings out of him, dodging and all.
in grafton street master dignam saw a red flower in a toff's mouth and a swell pair of kicks on him and he listening to what the drunk was telling him and grinning all the time.
no sandymount tram.
master dignam walked along nassau street, shifted the porksteaks to his other hand. his collar sprang up again and he tugged it down. the blooming stud was too small for the buttonhole of the shirt, blooming end to it. he met schoolboys with satchels. i'm not going tomorrow either, stay away till monday. he met other schoolboys. do they notice i'm in mourning? uncle barney said he'd get it into the paper tonight. then they'll all see it in the paper and read my name printed and pa's name.