magazines in the van and we tear and scatter them so that Mr. McCaf- frey will think they’re all page sixteen from John O’London. The biggest customer for the magazine, Mr. Hutchinson, tells Mr. McCaffrey get to hell out of his shop or he’ll brain him, get away from them magazines, and when Mr. McCaffrey keeps on tearing out pages Mr. Hutchinson throws him into the street, Mr. McCaffrey yelling that this is a Catholic country and just because Hutchinson is a Protestant that doesn’t give him the right to sell filth in the holiest city in Ireland. Mr. Hutchinson  says, Ah, kiss  my  arse, and  Mr. McCaffrey  says, See, boys?  See  what  happens  when  you’re  not  a  member  of  the True Church? Some shops says they’ve already sold all their copies of John O’Lon- don and Mr.McCaffrey says,Oh,Mother o’God,what’s going to become of us all? Who did ye sell them to? He demands the names and address of the customers who are in danger of losing their immortal souls from reading articles on birth con- trol.He will go to their houses and rip out that filthy page but the shop- keepers say, ’Tis Saturday night, McCaffrey, and getting dark and would you ever take a good running jump for yourself. On the way back to the office Eamon whispers to me in the back of the van, I have twenty-one pages. How many do you have? I tell him fourteen but I have over forty and I’m not telling him because you never have to tell the truth to people who lie about your bad eyes. Mr. McCaffrey tells us bring in the pages from the van.We scoop up everything on the floor and he’s happy sitting at his desk at the other end of the office ringing Dublin to tell them how he stormed through shops like God’s avenger and saved Limerick from the horrors of birth control while he watches a dancing fire of pages that have nothing to do with John O’London’s Weekly. Monday morning I cycle through the streets delivering magazines and people see the Easons sign on the bike and stop me to see if there’s any chance they could get their hands on a copy of John O’London’s Weekly.They’re all rich-looking people, some in motor cars, men with hats, collars and ties, and two fountain pens in their pockets, women with hats and little bits of fur dangling from their shoulders,people who have tea at the Savoy or the Stella and stick out their little fingers to show how well bred they are and now want to read this page about birth control. Eamon told me early in the day, Don’t sell the bloody page for less 349