Two young men came down the hill of Rutland Square.  On of them was just bringing a long monologue to a close.  The other, who walked on the verge of the path and was at times obliged to step on to the road, owing to his companion’s rudeness, wore an amused listening face.  He was squat and ruddy.  A yachting cap was shoved far back from his forehead and the narrative to which he listened made constant waves of expression break forth over his face from the corners of his nose and eyes and mouth.  Little jets of wheezing laughter followed one another out of his convulsed body.  His eyes, twinkling with cunning enjoyment, glanced at every moment towards his companion’s face.  Once or twice he rearranged the light waterproof which he had slung over one shoulder in toreador fashion.  His breeches, his white rubber shoes and his jauntily slung waterproof expressed youth.  But his figure fell into rotundity at the waist, his hair was scant and grey and his face, when the waves of expression had passed over it, had a ravaged look.

When he was quite sure that the narrative had ended he laughed noiselessly for fully half a minute.  Then he said: 

“Well!...  That takes the biscuit!”

His voice seemed winnowed of vigour; and to enforce his words he added with humour: 

“That takes the solitary, unique, and, if I may so call it, recherche biscuit! "

He became serious and silent when he had said this.  His tongue was tired for he had been talking all the afternoon in a public-house in Dorset Street.  Most people considered Lenehan a leech but, in spite of this reputation, his adroitness and eloquence had always prevented his friends from forming any general policy against him.  He had a brave manner of coming up to a party of them in a bar and of holding himself nimbly at the borders of the company until he was included in a round.  He was a sporting vagrant armed with a vast stock of stories, limericks and riddles.  He was insensitive to all kinds of discourtesy.  No one knew how he achieved the stern task of living, but his name was vaguely associated with racing tissues.

“And where did you pick her up, Corley?” he asked.

Corley ran his tongue swiftly along his upper lip.

“One night, man,” he said, “I was going along Dame Street and I spotted a fine tart under Waterhouse’s clock and said good- night, you know.  So we went for a walk round by the canal and she told me she was a slavey in a house in Baggot Street.  I put my arm round her and squeezed her a bit that night.  Then next Sunday, man, I met her by appointment.  We vent out to Donnybrook and I brought her into a field there.  She told me she used to go with a dairyman....  It was fine, man.  Cigarettes every night she’d bring me and paying the tram out and back.  And one night she brought me two bloody fine cigars—­O, the real cheese, you know, that the old fellow used to smoke....  I was afraid, man, she’d get in the family way.  But she’s up to the dodge.”