Page 193
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Jump to navigationJump to searchmaking) you squandered among underlings the overload of
your extravagance and made a hottentot of dulpeners crawsick
with your crumbs? Am I not right? Yes? Yes? Yes? Holy wax
and holifer! Don't tell me, Leon of the fold, that you are not a
loanshark! Look up, old sooty, be advised by mux and take your
medicine. The Good Doctor mulled it. Mix it twice before re-
pastures and powder three times a day. It does marvels for your
gripins and it's fine for the solitary worm.
Let me finish! Just a little judas tonic, my ghem of all jokes, to
make you go green in the gazer. Do you hear what I'm seeing,
hammet? And remember that golden silence gives consent, Mr
Anklegazer! Cease to be civil, learn to say nay! Whisht! Come
here, Herr Studiosus, till I tell you a wig in your ear. We'll do a
whisper drive, for if the barishnyas got a twitter of it they'd tell
the housetops and then all Cadbury would go crackers. Look!
Do you see your dial in the rockingglass? Look well ! Bend down
a stigmy till I! It's secret! Iggri, I say, the booseleers! I had it
from Lamppost Shawe. And he had it from the Mullah. And Mull
took it from a Bluecoat schooler. And Gay Socks jot it from
Potapheu's wife. And Rantipoll tipped the wink from old Mrs
Tinbullet. And as for she was confussed by pro-Brother Thaco-
licus. And the good brother feels he would need to defecate
you. And the Flimsy Follettes are simply beside each other.
And Kelly, Kenny and Keogh are up up and in arms. That a
cross may crush me if I refuse to believe in it. That I may rock
anchor through the ages if I hope it's not true. That the host
may choke me if I beneighbour you without my charity! Sh!
Shem, you are. Sh! You are mad!
He points the deathbone and the quick are still. Insomnia,
somnia somniorum. Awmawm.
MERCIUS (of hisself): Domine vopiscus! My fault, his fault,
a kingship through a fault! Pariah, cannibal Cain, I who oathily
forswore the womb that bore you and the paps I sometimes
sucked, you who ever since have been one black mass of jigs and
jimjams, haunted by a convulsionary sense of not having been
or being all that I might have been or you meant to becoming,
