"Well, Ned, how d\' you feel after your visit to Dublin, an\' how did you like the city?"

"I feel very thankful that I\'m alive at all," said Ned M\'Grane, "that\'s how I feel; an\' I may as well tell you straight out, \'ithout puttin\' a gum in it—because I haven\'t a tooth—that I didn\'t like the city at all, good, bad or indifferent, an\' I didn\'t feel aisy in me mind from the first minute I set foot in it, until the train whistled leavin\' Amiens Street on the way back."

"An\' how is that, Ned?"

"It\'s the quarest place you ever seen in your life, Denis, an\' if you\'re wise you\'ll never see it. I can\'t make out why people are always trippin\' over other runnin\' up to Dublin an\' half o\' them \'d be better off at home if they \'d only work hard an\' keep sober an\' let other people\'s business alone. What they can see in the city to get fond of passes my understandin\'. You\'d want to keep one hand on your nose nearly all the time an\' th\' other in the pocket you had the few shillin\'s in, because the smell o\' cabbage an\' fish an\' oranges an\' things like that, that\'s qualified for th\' old age pension, \'d nearly bid you the time o\' day it\'s that strong, an\' there\'s a lot o\' professional pocket cleaners goin\' about from mornin\' till night, an\' as soon as they get to know you\'re from the country—I[Pg 99] don\'t know how they guess at it—they remember all of a sudden that they\'re sixth cousin to your mother-in-law\'s step-uncle, or some other relation that you never seen or heard about, an\' if you open your mouth to spake to them they\'ll know your past history from cover to cover in five minutes an\' your business an\' all about you, an\' if you once make friends with them the dickens a shillin\' you\'ll have in your pocket when they get a sudden call to see a man on business outside in the street. Oh, I can tell you, \'shut your eyes and open your mouth\' would not be much use to a man in Dublin.

"They don\'t walk at all up there—it \'d hurt their corns an\' wear out their boots; but they\'re always runnin\' after trams, an\' then payin\' money to be let sit in them to draw their breath. I didn\'t know what they were at the first time I seen them doin\' it. I was walkin\' down from me cousin\'s house to the chapel one mornin\', an\' not payin\' much heed to anythin\', when a fella darted out of a gate an\' nearly knocked me down with the bump he gave into me. I was just goin\' to grab hould of him or give him a kick when he muttered somethin\' about bein\' sorry, an\' off he wint like forked lightnin\' an\' his hat in his hand an\' he wavin\' his arms like a tumblin\' rake, an\' he wasn\'t three perch runnin\' when a lassie in a hobble skirt started to take buck jumps after him, like a lad in a sack race, an\' then an old fat woman an\' a middle-aged lad with a rheumatic hop joined in the race an\' five or six more made after them as fast as they could leg it, an\' they all flingin\' their arms about the same as the first fella. \'Is it for a wager\'? says I to[Pg 100] a man that was walkin\' in the same direction as meself. \'Is what for a wager?\' says he. \'The race,\' says I, pointin\' to the crowd that was runnin\'. He began to laugh an\' looked at me in a way that said as plain as could be, \'You\'re a softy, anyway,\' an\' says he: \'Oh, they\'re only runnin\' to catch the tram.\' \'An\' why wouldn\'t they wait for this other one that\'s comin\' up now?\' says I. \'They never wait for a tram in Dublin,\' says he; \'they always run after the one that\'s ahead o\' them, an\' then if they can\'t catch it they spend the rest o\' the day writin\' letters to all the papers complainin\' o\' the rudeness o\' the tram boys that wouldn\'t wait for them.\' An\' some o\' the same people, when they were at home in the country two or three year ago wouldn\'t think a traneen about walkin\' five mile to a football match an\' five back, or trampin\' into the town on a fair day or a market day, an\' the dickens a bunion or a corn or a welt on their feet they had that time no more than there\'d be on the leg of a creepy stool or on the spout of a kettle. I suppose if there were trams down here the women \'d want to go in them to milk or to cut nettles for the ducks an\' the men \'d be runnin\' after them on their way to the bog or to the hay field, an\' they \'d be all writin\' letters to the papers if the tram man wouldn\'t wait for them till they \'d be after aitin\' their dinner or gettin\' a drink o\' buttermilk.

"You won\'t get a hand\'s turn done in Dublin \'ithout payin\' for it. If you send a lad for a farthin\' box o\' matches you must give him a ha\'penny for goin\' an\' maybe his tay w............