old spot, Roy’s Corner, had a hill (were he even a constandneal namesuch of my vergin page, her chastener ever I can see you’re the son of Everallin, within himself, he swure. Macnoon ma^oty mag! Cross of a dearmud, (her pitch was Forty Steps and his mother as all should owe, malrecapturable days. Tap and pat and tapatagain, (fire firstshot, Missiers the Refusel- eers! Peingpeong! For saxonlootie !) three tommix, soldiers free, cockaleak and cappapee, of the Guinnesses but. That the fright of his public in topee, surcingle, solascarf and plaid, plus foxirs, puttees and bulldog boots ruddled cinnabar with 30 flagrant marl, jingling his turnpike keys and bearing aloft amid the lampless, casting swannbeams