Free At Swim-two-birds by Flann O’Brien

of culture and old-world courtesy, his passing will be regretted by all without distinction of creed or class and in particular by the world of letters, which he adorned with distinction for many years. He was the first man in Europe to exhibit twenty-nine lions in a cage at the same time and the only writer to demonstrate that cow-punching could be economically carried on in Ringsend. His best-known works were
Red Flanagan’s last Throw, Flower o’ the Prairie, and Jake’s Last Ride
. Deceased was fifty-nine. Conclusion of excerpt.
    One day Tracy sent for me and gave me my orders and said it was one of his own cowboy books. Two days later I was cow-punching down by the river in Ringsend with Shorty Andrews and Slug Willard, the toughest pair of boyos you’d meet in a day’s walk. Rounding up steers, you know, and branding, and breaking in colts in the corral with lassoes on our saddle-horns and pistols at our hips. (O the real thing. Was there any drink to be had ?) There certainly was. At night we would gather in the bunkhouse with our porter and all our orders, cigarettes and plenty there on the chiffonier to be taken and no questions asked, school-marms and saloon-girls and little black maids skivvying there in the galley.(That was the place to be, now.) After a while be damned but in would walk a musidaner with a fiddle or a pipes in the hollow of his arm and there he would sit and play
Ave Maria
to bring the tears to your eyes. Then the boys would take up an old come-all-ye, the real old stuff, you know,
Phil the Fluter’s Ball
or the
Darling Girl from Clare
, a bloody lovely thing. (That was very nice certainly.) O we had the right time of it. One morning Slug and Shorty and myself and a few of the boys got the wire to saddle and rideup to Drumcondra to see my nabs Mr Tracy to get our orders for the day. Up we went on our horses, cantering up Mountjoy Square with our hats tilted back on our heads and the sun in our eyes and our gun-butts swinging at our holsters. When we got the length, go to God but wasn’t it a false alarm. (A false alarm! Lord save us! What brought that about now?) Wait till I tell you. Get back to hell, says Tracy, I never sent any message. Get back to hell to your prairies, says he, you pack of lousers that can be taken in by any fly-be-night with a fine story. Tm telling you that we were small men when we took the trail again for home. When we got the length, be damned but wasn’t the half of our steers rustled across the border in Mshtown by Red Kiersay’s gang of thieving ruffians. (Well that was a kick for you where-you-know.) Certainly it was. Red Kiersay, you understand, was working for another man by the oame of Henderson that was writing another book about cattle-dealers and jobbing and shipping bullocks to Liverpool. (Likely it was he sent you the false message?) Do you mind the cuteness of it? Get yourselves fed, says I to Shorty and Slug, we’re goin’ ridin’ tonight. Where? says Slug. Right over to them thar rustlers’ roost, says I, before Tracy finds out and skins us. Where’s the nigger skivvies? says Shorty. Now go to God, says I, don’t tell me they have taken the lot with them. (And had they?) Every one.
    Relevant excerpt from the Press
: An examination of the galley and servants’ sleeping-quarters revealed no trace of the negro maids. They had been offered lucrative inducements to come from the United States and had at no time expressed themselves as being dissatisfied with their conditions of service. Detective-Officer Snod-grass found a pearl-handled shooting-iron under the pillow in the bed of Liza Roberts, the youngest of the maids. No great importance is attached by the police to this discovery, however, asownership has heen traced to Peter (Shorty) Andrews, a cowboy, who states that though at a loss to explain the presence of his property in the maid’s bed, it is possible that she appropriated the