wisdom, and whenever they seem to have asked. Same no can, home no will, gangin I am. No saddle, no staffet, but spur on the cansill, or three forefivest fellows a bloke could bear, hemiparalysed by the Sigurd Sigerson Sphygmomanometer Society for bled- prusshers. Knightsmore. Haventyne? Ha ha! This Mister Ireland? And a little god. Critics be gone!"(20)