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“The dreadful fact is,” said Finn, to keep the converse aroar, “there is no single plot of land in all Ireland which is firm or dry enough to lie down with purpose and arise with joy.”
“You’ve touched the bull’s-eye and pierced the target,” said Timulty, the local postmaster, in for a quick one, there being only ten people waiting at the post-office. “There’s no acre off the road, out of sight of the priest or out of mind of the wife, where physical education can be pursued without critical attention.”
“The land is all bog,” Nolan nailed it, “and no relief.”
“There’s no place to cavort,” said Riordan, simply.
“Ah, that’s been said a thousand times this night,” protested Finn. “The thing is, what do we do about it?”
“If someone would only stop the rain and fire the priests,” suggested Nolan.
“That’ll be the day,” cried all, and emptied their drinks.
“It reminds me of that Hoolihan tragedy,” said Finn, refilling each glass. “Is that remembered?”
“Say it, Finn.”
“Well, Hoolihan wandered this woman who was no Madonna, but neither was she last year’s potatoes, and they passed a likely turf which seemed more flatland than swamp and Hoolihan said, Trot on out on that bog. If it holds, I’ll follow. Well, she trotted out and turns around and—sinks! Never laid a hand on her. Before he could shout: No! she was gone!”
“The truth is,” Nolan obtruded, “Hoolihan threw her a rope. But she slung it round her neck instead of her waist and all but strangled in the pulling out. But I like your version best, Finn. Anyways, they made a song of it!”
And here Nolan began, but everyone put in to finish the verse:
“The sinking of Molly in old Kelly’s bog
Is writ in the Lord Mayor’s roll call and a log
Poor Molly went there with the Hoolihan boy
And sank out of sight with one last shriek of joy.
He took her out there for what do you suppose?
And was busy at ridding the lass of her clothes,
But no sooner deprived of each last seam and stitch
Than she wallowed and sank and was lost in the ditch.
The ducks they all gaggled and even the hog
Wept Christian salt-tears for Moll sunk in the bog—”
“It goes on from there,” said Nolan. “Needless to say the Hoolihan boy was distraught. When you’re thinking one thing and another occurs, it fair turns the mind. He’s feared to cross a brick road since without testing for quicksand. Shall I go on?”
“No use,” cried Doone, suddenly, no more than four foot ten inches high but terrible fast plummeting out of theaters ahead of the national anthem, the local Anthem Sprinter, as everyone knows. Now, on tiptoe, he boxed the air around the pub and voiced his protest. “What’s the use of all this palaver the last thousand nights when it’s time to act? Even if there was a sudden flood of femininity in the provinces with no lint on them and their seams straight, what would we do with them?”
“True,” admitted Finn. “God in Ireland just tempts man but to disown him.”
“God’s griefs and torments,” added Riordan. “I haven’t even wrestled Adam’s old friend Eve late nights in the last row of the Gayety Cinema!”
“The Gayety Cinema?” cried Nolan in dread remorse. “Gah! I crept through the dark there once and found me a lass who seemed a salmon frolicking upstream. When the lights came on, I saw I had taken communion with a troll from the Liffey bridge. I ran to commit suicide with drink. To hell with the Gayety and all men who prowl there with dreams and slink forth with nightmare!”
“Which leaves only the bogs for criminal relief and drowned in the bargain. Doone,” said Finn, “do you have a plan, you with that big mouth in the tiny body?”
“I have!” said Doone, not standing still, sketching the air with his fists and fingers as he danced to his own tune. “You must admit that the various bogs are the one place the Church puts no dainty toe. But also a place where a girl, representing the needy, and out of her mind, might test her will to defy the sinkage. For it’s true, one grand plunge if you’re not careful and no place to put her tombstone. Now hear this!”
Doone stopped so all might lean at him, eyes wide, and ears acock.
