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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Стр. 447/821
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Ah
!
Ow
!
Don
’
t
be
talking
!
I
was
blue
mouldy
for
the
want
of
that
pint
.
Declare
to
God
I
could
hear
it
hit
the
pit
of
my
stomach
with
a
click
.
And
lo
,
as
they
quaffed
their
cup
of
joy
,
a
godlike
messenger
came
swiftly
in
,
radiant
as
the
eye
of
heaven
,
a
comely
youth
and
behind
him
there
passed
an
elder
of
noble
gait
and
countenance
,
bearing
the
sacred
scrolls
of
law
and
with
him
his
lady
wife
a
dame
of
peerless
lineage
,
fairest
of
her
race
.
Little
Alf
Bergan
popped
in
round
the
door
and
hid
behind
Barney
’
s
snug
,
squeezed
up
with
the
laughing
.
And
who
was
sitting
up
there
in
the
corner
that
I
hadn
’
t
seen
snoring
drunk
blind
to
the
world
only
Bob
Doran
.
I
didn
’
t
know
what
was
up
and
Alf
kept
making
signs
out
of
the
door
.
And
begob
what
was
it
only
that
bloody
old
pantaloon
Denis
Breen
in
his
bathslippers
with
two
bloody
big
books
tucked
under
his
oxter
and
the
wife
hotfoot
after
him
,
unfortunate
wretched
woman
,
trotting
like
a
poodle
.
I
thought
Alf
would
split
.
—
Look
at
him
,
says
he
.
Breen
.
He
’
s
traipsing
all
round
Dublin
with
a
postcard
someone
sent
him
with
U
.
p
:
up
on
it
to
take
a
li
.
.
.
And
he
doubled
up
.
—
Take
a
what
?
says
I
.
—
Libel
action
,
says
he
,
for
ten
thousand
pounds
.
—
O
hell
!
says
I
.
The
bloody
mongrel
began
to
growl
that
’
d
put
the
fear
of
God
in
you
seeing
something
was
up
but
the
citizen
gave
him
a
kick
in
the
ribs
.
—
Bi
i
dho
husht
,
says
he
.
