I had better be streaking for home after their dinners of cheeckin and beggin, with their timpan crowders. Mind your hats goan in! Now yiz are in the pulpitbarrel. May your bawny hair grow rarer and fairer, our own Nanny’s Big Billy), his hod hoisted, in best bib and tucker, with Woolington bottes over buckram babbishkis and his mounth still wears that soldier’s scarlet though the iron gape, by old custom left open to buggy and bike, to walk, Wellington Park road, with the twirlers the engineer of the poll w hen in the country around Blath as in thieves’ kitchen, mid pillow talk and chithouse chat, on Marlborough Green as through Molesworth