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It was well and truly said, and there was no posing about it. Sir James Blount's problem was settled. He taught me something too, for all he did was to put out his hand. "There's an end of Tundish!" said Tiverton, grasping it firmly. "And it's the best end too, for the Highland army hasn't a snowball's chance in hell."
You must choose the pure oil and you must be careful when you pour it in not to overflow it, not to pour in more than the funnel can hold. What funnel? asked Stephen. The funnel through which you pour the oil into your lamp. That? said Stephen. Is that called a funnel? Is it not a tundish? What is a tundish? That. The... funnel. Is that called a tundish in Ireland? asked the dean.
They are heard now far away, hoofs that shine amid the heavy night as gems, hurrying beyond the sleeping fields to what journey's end what heart? bearing what tidings? Read what I wrote last night. Vague words for a vague emotion. Would she like it? I think so. Then I should have to like it also. That tundish has been on my mind for a long time.
I never heard the word in my life. It is called a tundish in Lower Drumcondra, said Stephen, laughing, where they speak the best English. A tundish, said the dean reflectively. That is a most interesting word. I must look that word up. Upon my word I must.
Or had Lord Christ touched him and bidden him follow, like that disciple who had sat at the receipt of custom, as he sat by the door of some zinc-roofed chapel, yawning and telling over his church pence? The dean repeated the word yet again. Tundish! Well now, that is interesting! The question you asked me a moment ago seems to me more interesting.