122 GARRYOWEN 



It was a kind of song, a recitative, an invocation. 



" I tell you I have no change," flashed the 

 flowerless one. " I tell you I have no change." 



The priestess of Flora halted and sniffed. 



"Change!" said she; "no, nor nothin' to 

 change." 



Mr French laughed as he opened his umbrella 

 and hailed a passing outside car. " Faith," said 

 he, as he mounted on the side of the car, " she's 

 about hit the bull's eye." 



" Did you spake, sir? " said the jarvey. 



" No, I was only thinking. Drive me to 32 

 Leeson Street. And where on earth did you pick 

 up this old rattletrap of a horse from? " 



" Pick him up! " said the jarvey with a grin. 

 " Faith, the last time I picked him up was when 

 he tumbled down in Dame Street yesterday after- 

 noon, wid a car-load of luggidge dhrivin' to 

 Westland Row." 



" You seem to have a talent for picking up 

 rubbish, then," said Mr French. 



" It's the fault of the p'leece," replied the other, 

 with an extension of the grin that Nature, whisky, 

 and the profession of car-driving had fixed upon 

 his face. " It's the fault of the p'leece, bad 'cess 

 to them." 



" And how's that? " asked Mr French, in- 

 cautiously. 



" Sure, they forbids me to refuse a fare. Jay 

 up, y'divil! what are yiz shyin' at? Did y'never 

 see a barra of greens before? Now thin, now thin, 



