Why? We can sell ’em, me an’ Peter. Why? ’Tis all about birth control and that’s banned in Ireland. What’s birth control? Aw, Christ  above, don’t  you  know  anything?  ’Tis  condoms, you know, rubbers, French letters, things like that to stop the girls from get- ting up the pole. Up the pole? Pregnant. Sixteen years of age an’ you’re pure ignorant. Hurry up an’ get the pages before everybody starts runnin’ to the shop for John O’London’s Weekly. I’m  about  to  push  away  on  the  bike  when  Mr. McCaffrey  runs down the steps. Hold on, McCourt, we’ll go in the van. Eamon, you come with us. What about Peter? Leave him. He’ll wind up with a magazine in the lavatory anyway. Mr. McCaffrey talks to himself in the van. Nice bloody how do you do ringing down here from Dublin on a fine Saturday to send us tear- ing around Limerick ripping pages out of an English magazine when I could be at home with a cup of tea and a nice bun and a read of The Irish Press with my feet up on a box under the picture of the Sacred Heart nice bloody how do you do entirely. Mr. McCaffrey runs into every shop with us behind him. He grabs the magazines, hands each of us a pile and tells us start tearing. Shop owners scream at him, What are ye doing? Jesus, Mary and Holy St. Joseph, is it pure mad ye are? Put back them magazines or I’ll call the guards. Mr. McCaffrey tells them, Government orders, ma’am.There is filth in John O’London this week that’s not fit for any Irish eyes and we are here to do God’s work. What filth? What filth? Show me the filth before ye go mutilatin’ the magazines. I won’t pay Easons for these magazines, so I won’t. Ma’am, we don’t care at Easons.We’d rather lose large amounts than have the people of Limerick and Ireland corrupted by this filth. What filth? Can’t tell you. Come on, boys. We throw the pages on the floor of the van and when Mr. McCaf- frey is in a shop arguing we stuff some into our shirts. There are old 348