Cleverest fellow at the junior bar he used to be. Decline, poor chap.
That hectic flush spells finis for a man. Touch and go with him. What’s
in the wind, I wonder. Money worry.
—_Or again if we but climb the serried mountain peaks._
—You’re looking extra.
—Is the editor to be seen? J. J. O’Molloy asked, looking towards the
inner door.
—Very much so, professor MacHugh said. To be seen and heard. He’s in
his sanctum with Lenehan.
J. J. O’Molloy strolled to the sloping desk and began to turn back the
pink pages of the file.
Practice dwindling. A mighthavebeen. Losing heart. Gambling. Debts of
honour. Reaping the whirlwind. Used to get good retainers from D. and
T. Fitzgerald. Their wigs to show the grey matter. Brains on their
sleeve like the statue in Glasnevin. Believe he does some literary work
for the _Express_ with Gabriel Conroy. Wellread fellow. Myles Crawford
began on the _Independent._ Funny the way those newspaper men veer
about when they get wind of a new opening. Weathercocks. Hot and cold
in the same breath. Wouldn’t know which to believe. One story good till
you hear the next. Go for one another baldheaded in the papers and then
all blows over. Hail fellow well met the next moment.
—Ah, listen to this for God’ sake, Ned Lambert pleaded. _Or again if we
but climb the serried mountain peaks..._
—Bombast! the professor broke in testily. Enough of the inflated
windbag!
—_Peaks_, Ned Lambert went on, _towering high on high, to bathe our
souls, as it were..._
—Bathe his lips, Mr Dedalus said. Blessed and eternal God! Yes? Is he
taking anything for it?
_—As ’twere, in the peerless panorama of Ireland’s portfolio,
unmatched, despite their wellpraised prototypes in other vaunted prize
regions, for very beauty, of bosky grove and undulating plain and
luscious pastureland of vernal green, steeped in the transcendent
translucent glow of our mild mysterious Irish twilight..._