Quidnunc, the pseudonym under which various parties then wrote the Irishman's Diary, had the misfortune to share a page with Cruiskeen Lawn. Like everyone else on that page, including the editorial writers, he was a regular target for Myles's wit, especially when guilty of loose or cliched language. The "Harry Meade" and "Barniville" mentioned were both famous Dublin surgeons. – FRANK McNALLY
THE OTHER day I was reading that man down there on the right [Quidnunc] and I caught him saying this: “If you have the bones of a typewriter lying in an attic they are worth money today.”
This seems reasonable enough until we bring (to bear) upon it our whole fatuous battery of professional paranoia, perversion and catachresis, rushing out with our precast vaudeville clown-routine of quotation, misinterpretation and drivelling comment. Does the result please anyone, bring the most faded polite laugh, the most, tenuous giggle, the most bilious sneer?
Well, all I can say is this: if I have the bones of a typewriter Quidnunc can do nothing for me, Harrv Meade can do nothing for me, Barniville can do nothing for me, and it’s a sure thing I won’t be lying in an attic reading this newspaper’s advice on how to make money. I’ll be stuffed into some circus and billed above the Bearded Lady. On payment of sixpence you will be permitted to view my unique bones through some X-ray gadget.
Remington I knew well. He had the whole of his insides taken out of him, bones and all, when he was a lad – he was suffering from diffused chrythronielalgia – and had new bones made for him out of old typewriters. And, mark this, when he grew up, he was as fine a looking man as you’d meet in a dazed walk. (No, no, no, put away that pencil. I didn’t mean you to mark it that way. I meant you to read, mark, and inwardly digest, that’s all).
“In middle life Remington discovered that he had a weak cliest and (what would do him), (only) have a complete brand-new typewriter built into the upper part of his metal torso. Occasionally he would accidentally tap down a key or two when leaning against counters or bridge parapets. People said that mysterious tips for horse races were often found on his internal roller; (be that as it may) (certain it is) that he never went out without a sheet of paper stuck in his “carriage.”
I well remember an embarrassing incident that occurred – I think it was the year of the split – the last time I was talking to him. (What would do me) (only) get into a political argument with him. I kept (on) tapping him on the chest to bring home all my points. Only when I heard the tinkle of a little muffed bell did I remember that I was talking to no ordinary man. Did he take offence? Not old Bill Remington. With exquisite refinement he excused himself, turned away, and inserting a hand under his waistcoat, drew back the carriage. I often wonder what stupid motto I typed out during that encounter. “Up the Prince of Wales” or something, I suppose.
Poor old Underwood and that astute statesman, Smith Premier, were also men who had the typewriter in their bones. I knew them well. Decenter men never stood in bat substance one associates with hot feet – shoe lather.
Towards the end of Premier Smith’s life he was a sick man. And at what was he a very sick man?
At that.
But old George Underwood was a bright soul, always up to practical jokes and harmless rascality, you couldn’t have a party without him. What shrill acoustical phenomenon was he?
A scream.