Funny sight two of them together, their bellies out.  Molly and Mrs Moisel.  Mothers’ meeting.  Phthisis retires for the time being, then returns.  How flat they look all of a sudden after.  Peaceful eyes.  Weight off their mind.  Old Mrs Thornton was a jolly old soul.  All my babies, she said.  The spoon of pap in her mouth before she fed them.  O, that’s nyumnyum.  Got her hand crushed by old Tom Wall’s son.  His first bow to the public.  Head like a prize pumpkin.  Snuffy Dr Murren.  People knocking them up at all hours.  For God’ sake, doctor.  Wife in her throes.  Then keep them waiting months for their fee.  To attendance on your wife.  No gratitude in people.  Humane doctors, most of them.

Before the huge high door of the Irish house of parliament a flock of pigeons flew.  Their little frolic after meals.  Who will we do it on?  I pick the fellow in black.  Here goes.  Here’s good luck.  Must be thrilling from the air.  Apjohn, myself and Owen Goldberg up in the trees near Goose green playing the monkeys.  Mackerel they called me.

A squad of constables debouched from College street, marching in Indian file.  Goosestep.  Foodheated faces, sweating helmets, patting their truncheons.  After their feed with a good load of fat soup under their belts.  Policeman’s lot is oft a happy one.  They split up in groups and scattered, saluting, towards their beats.  Let out to graze.  Best moment to attack one in pudding time.  A punch in his dinner.  A squad of others, marching irregularly, rounded Trinity railings making for the station.  Bound for their troughs.  Prepare to receive cavalry.  Prepare to receive soup.

He crossed under Tommy Moore’s roguish finger.  They did right to put him up over a urinal:  meeting of the waters.  Ought to be places for women.  Running into cakeshops.  Settle my hat straight.  There is not in this wide world A Vallee.  Great song of Julia Morkan’s.  Kept her voice up to the very last.  Pupil of Michael Balfe’s, wasn’t she?

He gazed after the last broad tunic.  Nasty customers to tackle.  Jack Power could a tale unfold:  father a G man.  If a fellow gave them trouble being lagged they let him have it hot and heavy in the bridewell.  Can’t blame them after all with the job they have especially the young hornies.  That horsepoliceman the day Joe Chamberlain was given his degree in Trinity he got a run for his money.  My word he did!  His horse’s hoofs clattering after us down Abbey street.  Lucky I had the presence of mind to dive into Manning’s or I was souped.  He did come a wallop, by George.  Must have cracked his skull on the cobblestones.  I oughtn’t to have got myself swept along with those medicals.  And the Trinity jibs in their mortarboards.  Looking for trouble.  Still I got to know that young Dixon who dressed that sting for me in the Mater and now he’s in Holles street where Mrs Purefoy.  Wheels within wheels.  Police whistle in my ears still.  All skedaddled.  Why he fixed on me.  Give me in charge.  Right here it began.