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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 bath slippers 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.
Who? says Joe.
Breen, says Alf.
He was in John Henry Menton's and then he went round to Collis and Ward's and then Tom Rochford met him and sent him round to the subsheriff's for a lark.
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