Chapter 9

           IwasjustpassingthetimeofdaywitholdTroyoftheD.M.P.atthecornerofArbourhillthereandbedamnedbutabloodysweepcamealongandheneardrovehisgearintomyeye.IturnedaroundtolethimhavetheweightofmytonguewhenwhoshouldIseedodgingalongStonyBatteronlyJoeHynes.

           —Lo,Joe,saysI.Howareyoublowing?Didyouseethatbloodychimneysweepnearshovemyeyeoutwithhisbrush?

           —Soot’sluck,saysJoe.Who’stheoldballocksyouweretalkingto?

           —OldTroy,saysI,wasintheforce.I’montwomindsnottogivethatfellowinchargeforobstructingthethoroughfarewithhisbroomsandladders.

           —Whatareyoudoingroundthoseparts?saysJoe.

           —Devilamuch,saysI.There’sabloodybigfoxythiefbeyondbythegarrisonchurchatthecornerofChickenlane—oldTroywasjustgivingmeawrinkleabouthim—liftedanyGod’squantityofteaandsugartopaythreebobaweeksaidhehadafarminthecountyDownoffahop-of-my-thumbbythenameofMosesHerzogovertherenearHeytesburystreet.

           —Circumcised?saysJoe.

           —Ay,saysI.Abitoffthetop.AnoldplumbernamedGeraghty.I’mhangingontohistawnowforthepastfortnightandIcan’tgetapennyoutofhim.

           —Thatthelayyou’reonnow?saysJoe.

           —Ay,saysI.Howarethemightyfallen!Collectorofbadanddoubtfuldebts.Butthat’sthemostnotoriousbloodyrobberyou’dmeetinaday’swalkandthefaceonhimallpockmarkswouldholdashowerofrain.