his father the headborough who shed a pint
of tears as often as he saw him. What, says Mr Leopold with his hands
across, that was earnest to know the drift of it, will they slaughter
all? I protest I saw them but this day morning going to the Liverpool
boats, says he. I can scarce believe 'tis so bad, says he. And he had
experience of the like brood beasts and of springers, greasy hoggets and
wether wool, having been some years before actuary for Mr Joseph Cuffe,
a worthy salesmaster that drove his trade for live stock and meadow
auctions hard by Mr Gavin Low's yard in Prussia street. I question with
you there, says he. More like 'tis the hoose or the timber tongue. Mr
Stephen, a little moved but very handsomely told him no such matter and
that he had dispatches from the emperor's chief tailtickler thanking
him for the hospitality, that was sending over Doctor Rinderpest, the
bestquoted cowcatcher in all Muscovy, with a bolus or two of physic to
take the bull by the horns. Come, come, says Mr Vincent, plain dealing.
He'll find himself on the horns of a dilemma if he meddles with a
bull that's Irish, says he. Irish by name and irish by nature, says Mr
Stephen, and he sent the ale purling about, an Irish bull in an English
chinashop. I conceive you, says Mr Dixon. It is that same bull that was
sent to our island by farmer Nicholas, the bravest cattlebreeder of them
all, with an emerald ring in his nose. True for you, says Mr Vincent
cross the table, and a bullseye into the bargain, says he, and a plumper
and a portlier bull, says he, never shit on shamrock. He had horns
galore, a coat of cloth of gold and a sweet smoky breath coming out of
his nostrils so that the women of our island, leaving doughballs and
rollingpins, followed after him hanging his bulliness in daisychains.
What for that, says Mr Dixon, but before he came over farmer Nicholas
that was a eunuch had him properly gelded by a college of doctors who
were no better off than himself. So be off now, says he, and do all my
cousin german the lord Harry tells you and take a farmer's blessing, and
with that he slapped his posteriors very soundly. But the slap and the
blessing stood him friend, says Mr Vincent, for to make up he taught him
a trick worth two of the other so that maid, wife, abbess and widow to
this day affirm that they would rather any time of the month whisper
in his ear in the dark of a cowhouse or get a lick on the nape from his
long holy tongue tha