XVI Mrs. O’Connell gives me telegrams to deliver to Mr. Harrington, the Englishman with the dead wife that was born and bred in Limer- ick.The boys at the post office say sympathy telegrams are a waste of time. People just cry and moan with the grief and they think they’re excused from the tip.They’ll ask you if you’d like to come in for a look at the departed and a prayer by the bed.That wouldn’t be so bad if they offered you a drop of sherry and a ham sandwich. Oh, no, they’re happy to get your prayer but you’re only a telegram boy and you’re lucky if you get a dry biscuit. Older boys at the post office say you have to play your cards right to get the grief tip. If you’re asked in to say a prayer you have to kneel by the corpse, give a powerful sigh, bless yourself, drop your forehead to the bedclothes so they won’t see your face, let your shoulders shake like one collapsing with sorrow, hold on to the bed with your two hands as if they’re going to have to tear you away to deliver the rest of your telegrams, make sure your cheeks are glinting with tears or the spit you dabbed on, and if you don’t get a tip after all that push the next batch of telegrams under the door or fire them over the transom and leave them to their grief. This isn’t my first time delivering telegrams to the Harrington house. Mr. Harrington is always away on business for the insurance company 326