Flannery: Unless you might give him, he was
saying, a blast of the bellows, that would change
his dispensary into a racing stable, and all that
come to be cured into jockeys and into grooms!
Conan: What chatterers ye are! I gave ye no
leave to speak of that.
Rock: Ah, it costs nothing to be giving out
newses.
Flannery: The world and all will be coming to
the door to throw up their hats for you, and you
making your start, cars and ass cars, jennets and
traps. (Sings.)
"O Bay of Dublin, how my heart your troublin',
Your beauty haunts me like a fever dream;
Like frozen fountains that the sun set bubblin'
My heart's blood warms when I but hear your name!"
Conan: It's my death I'll come to in Dublin.
That news to get there ahead of me I'll be pressed
in the throng as thin as a griddle.
Flannery: So you might be, too. All I have
that might protect you I offer free, and that's this
good umbrella that was given to me in a rainstorm
by a priest. (Holds it out.)