Preparatory
to
anything
else
Mr
Bloom
brushed
off
the greater bulk
of
the shavings
and
handed Stephen the
hat
and
ashplant
and
bucked
him
up
generally
in
orthodox
Samaritan
fashion
which
he
very
badly needed.
His
(Stephen's)
mind
was
not exactly
what
you
would
call
wandering but
a
bit
unsteady
and
on
his
expressed
desire
for
some
beverage
to
drink
Mr
Bloom
in
view
of
the
hour
it
was
and
there being no pump
of
Vartry
water
available
for
their
ablutions
let
alone drinking purposes
hit
upon
an
expedient
by
suggesting,
off
the reel, the
propriety
of
the cabman's shelter,
as
it
was
called,
hardly
a
stonesthrow
away
near
Butt
bridge
where
they
might
hit
upon
some
drinkables
in
the
shape
of
a
milk
and
soda
or
a
mineral. But
how
to
get
there
was
the rub.
For
the
nonce
he
was
rather
nonplussed but inasmuch
as
the
duty
plainly devolved
upon
him
to
take
some
measures
on
the
subject
he
pondered suitable ways
and
means
during
which
Stephen repeatedly yawned.
So
far
as
he
could
see
he
was
rather
pale
in
the face
so
that
it
occurred
to
him
as
highly
advisable
to
get
a
conveyance
of
some
description
which
would
answer
in
their
then
condition, both
of
them
being e.d.ed, particularly Stephen,
always
assuming
that
there
was
such
a
thing
to
be
found. Accordingly
after
a
few
such
preliminaries
as
brushing,
in
spite
of
his
having forgotten
to
take
up
his
rather
soapsuddy handkerchief
after
it
had done
yeoman
service
in
the shaving line,
they
both walked
together
along
Beaver
street
or,
more
properly,
lane
as
far
as
the farrier's
and
the distinctly
fetid
atmosphere
of
the
livery
stables
at
the
corner
of
Montgomery
street
where
they
made
tracks
to
the
left
from
thence
debouching
into
Amiens
street
round
by
the
corner
of
Dan Bergin's. But
as
he
confidently anticipated there
was
not
a
sign
of
a
Jehu plying
for
hire
anywhere
to
be
seen
except
a
fourwheeler, probably engaged
by
some
fellows
inside
on
the spree, outside the North Star
hotel
and
there
was
no
symptom
of
its budging
a
quarter
of
an inch
when
Mr Bloom,
who
was
anything
but
a
professional whistler, endeavoured
to
hail
it
by
emitting
a
kind
of
a
whistle, holding
his
arms arched
over
his
head, twice. —And
that
one
was
Judas, Stephen said,
who
up
to
then
had said
nothing
whatsoever
of
any
kind. Discussing
these
and
kindred
topics
they
made
a
beeline
across
the
back
of
the Customhouse
and
passed under the Loop Line
bridge
where
a
brazier
of
coke
burning
in
front
of
a
sentrybox
or
something
like
one
attracted
their
rather
lagging footsteps. Stephen
of
his
own
accord
stopped
for
no
special
reason
to
look
at
the
heap
of
barren
cobblestones
and
by
the
light
emanating
from
the
brazier
he
could
just
make
out
the darker
figure
of
the
corporation
watchman
inside
the gloom
of
the sentrybox.
He
began
to
remember
that
this
had happened
or
had been mentioned
as
having happened before but
it
cost
him
no small
effort
before
he
remembered
that
he
recognised
in
the sentry
a
quondam
friend
of
his
father's, Gumley.
To
avoid
a
meeting
he
drew nearer
to
the pillars
of
the railway bridge. —Someone saluted you, Mr
Bloom
said.
A
figure
of
middle
height
on
the prowl evidently under the arches saluted again, calling: Stephen,
that
is
when
the accosting
figure
came
to
close quarters, though
he
was
not
in
an
over
sober
state
himself
recognised Corley's
breath
redolent
of
rotten
cornjuice. Lord John Corley
some
called
him
and
his
genealogy
came
about
in
this
wise.
He
was
the
eldest
son
of
inspector
Corley
of
the G division,
lately
deceased,
who
had married
a
certain
Katherine Brophy, the
daughter
of
a
Louth farmer.
His
grandfather
Patrick Michael Corley
of
New
Ross had married the
widow
of
a
publican
there
whose
maiden
name
had been Katherine (also) Talbot. Rumour had
it
(though not proved)
that
she
descended
from
the
house
of
the lords Talbot
de
Malahide
in
whose
mansion, really an unquestionably
fine
residence
of
its
kind
and
well
worth
seeing, her mother
or
aunt
or
some
relative,
a
woman,
as
the
tale
went,
of
extreme
beauty, had enjoyed the
distinction
of
being
in
service
in
the washkitchen.
This
therefore
was
the
reason
why
the
still
comparatively
young
though
dissolute
man
who
now
addressed Stephen
was
spoken
of
by
some
with
facetious
proclivities
as
Lord John Corley. Taking Stephen
on
one
side
he
had the
customary
doleful
ditty
to
tell. Not
as
much
as
a
farthing
to
purchase
a
night's lodgings.
His
friends had all deserted him.
Furthermore
he
had
a
row
with
Lenehan
and
called
him
to
Stephen
a
mean
bloody
swab
with
a
sprinkling
of
a
number
of
other
uncalledfor expressions.
He
was
out
of
a
job
and
implored
of
Stephen
to
tell
him
where
on
God's
earth
he
could
get
something,
anything
at
all,
to
do. No,
it
was
the
daughter
of
the mother
in
the washkitchen
that
was
fostersister
to
the
heir
of
the
house
or
else
they
were
connected through the mother
in
some
way, both occurrences happening
at
the
same
time
if
the
whole
thing
wasn't
a
complete
fabrication
from
start
to
finish.
Anyhow
he
was
all in. —I wouldn't
ask
you
only, pursued he,
on
my
solemn
oath
and
God
knows I'm
on
the rocks. —There'll
be
a
job
tomorrow
or
next
day, Stephen told him,
in
a
boys'
school
at
Dalkey
for
a
gentleman usher. Mr Garrett Deasy.
Try
it.
You
may
mention
my name. —Ah, God, Corley replied,
sure
I couldn't
teach
in
a
school, man. I
was
never
one
of
your
bright
ones,
he
added
with
a
half laugh. I got stuck
twice
in
the
junior
at
the christian brothers. —I
have
no
place
to
sleep
myself, Stephen informed him. Corley
at
the first go-off
was
inclined
to
suspect
it
was
something
to
do
with
Stephen being fired
out
of
his
digs
for
bringing
in
a
bloody
tart
off
the street. There
was
a
dosshouse
in
Marlborough street, Mrs Maloney's, but
it
was
only
a
tanner
touch
and
full
of
undesirables but M'Conachie told
him
you
got
a
decent
enough
do
in
the
Brazen
Head
over
in
Winetavern
street
(which
was
distantly suggestive
to
the
person
addressed
of
friar
Bacon)
for
a
bob.
He
was
starving
too
though
he
hadn't said
a
word
about
it. —Those
are
halfcrowns, man, Corley corrected him.
And
so
in
point
of
fact
they
turned
out
to
be. Stephen
anyhow
lent
him
one
of
them. —Thanks, Corley answered, you're
a
gentleman. I'll
pay
you
back
one
time. Who's
that
with
you? I
saw
him
a
few
times
in
the Bleeding
Horse
in
Camden
street
with
Boylan, the billsticker.
You
might
put
in
a
good
word
for
us
to
get
me
taken
on
there. I'd carry
a
sandwichboard
only
the
girl
in
the
office
told
me
they're
full
up
for
the
next
three
weeks, man. God, you've
to
book
ahead, man, you'd
think
it
was
for
the
Carl
Rosa. I don't
give
a
shite
anyway
so
long
as
I
get
a
job,
even
as
a
crossing sweeper. Subsequently being not
quite
so
down
in
the
mouth
after
the
two
and
six
he
got
he
informed Stephen
about
a
fellow
by
the
name
of
Bags Comisky
that
he
said Stephen knew
well
out
of
Fullam's, the shipchandler's,
bookkeeper
there
that
used
to
be
often
round
in
Nagle's
back
with
O'Mara
and
a
little
chap
with
a
stutter
the
name
of
Tighe.
Anyhow
he
was
lagged the
night
before
last
and
fined ten
bob
for
a
drunk
and
disorderly
and
refusing
to
go
with
the constable. 210 Mr
Bloom
in
the meanwhile kept dodging
about
in
the
vicinity
of
the cobblestones
near
the
brazier
of
coke
in
front
of
the
corporation
watchman's sentrybox
who
evidently
a
glutton
for
work,
it
struck him,
was
having
a
quiet
forty
winks
for
all intents
and
purposes
on
his
own
private
account
while
Dublin slept.
He
threw an
odd
eye
at
the
same
time
now
and
then
at
Stephen's
anything
but immaculately attired
interlocutor
as
if
he
had seen
that
nobleman somewhere
or
other
though
where
he
was
not
in
a
position
to
truthfully
state
nor
had
he
the remotest
idea
when. Being
a
levelheaded
individual
who
could
give
points
to
not
a
few
in
point
of
shrewd
observation
he
also
remarked
on
his
very
dilapidated
hat
and
slouchy wearing
apparel
generally testifying
to
a
chronic
impecuniosity. Palpably
he
was
one
of
his
hangerson but
for
the
matter
of
that
it
was
merely
a
question
of
one
preying
on
his
nextdoor neighbour all round,
in
every
deep,
so
to
put
it,
a
deeper
depth
and
for
the
matter
of
that
if
the
man
in
the
street
chanced
to
be
in
the
dock
himself
penal
servitude
with
or
without the
option
of
a
fine
would
be
a
very
rara avis altogether.
In
any
case
he
had
a
consummate
amount
of
cool
assurance
intercepting
people
at
that
hour
of
the
night
or
morning. Pretty
thick
that
was
certainly. The pair parted
company
and
Stephen rejoined Mr
Bloom
who,
with
his
practised eye,
was
not without perceiving
that
he
had succumbed
to
the blandiloquence
of
the
other
parasite. Alluding
to
the
encounter
he
said, laughingly, Stephen,
that
is: —He
is
down
on
his
luck.
He
asked
me
to
ask
you
to
ask
somebody named Boylan,
a
billsticker,
to
give
him
a
job
as
a
sandwichman.
At
this
intelligence,
in
which
he
seemingly evinced
little
interest, Mr
Bloom
gazed abstractedly
for
the space
of
a
half
a
second
or
so
in
the
direction
of
a
bucketdredger, rejoicing
in
the farfamed
name
of
Eblana, moored alongside Customhouse
quay
and
quite
possibly
out
of
repair, whereupon
he
observed evasively: —Everybody gets
their
own
ration
of
luck,
they
say.
Now
you
mention
it
his
face
was
familiar
to
me. But, leaving
that
for
the moment,
how
much
did
you
part
with,
he
queried,
if
I
am
not
too
inquisitive? —Half
a
crown, Stephen responded. I daresay
he
needs
it
to
sleep
somewhere. —Needs! Mr
Bloom
ejaculated, professing not the
least
surprise
at
the intelligence, I
can
quite
credit
the
assertion
and
I guarantee
he
invariably does. Everyone according
to
his
needs
or
everyone according
to
his
deeds. But, talking
about
things
in
general, where, added
he
with
a
smile,
will
you
sleep
yourself? Walking
to
Sandycove
is
out
of
the question.
And
even
supposing
you
did
you
won't
get
in
after
what
occurred
at
Westland
Row
station. Simply fag
out
there
for
nothing. I don't
mean
to
presume
to
dictate
to
you
in
the slightest
degree
but
why
did
you
leave
your father's house? —To
seek
misfortune,
was
Stephen's answer. —I met your respected father
on
a
recent
occasion, Mr
Bloom
diplomatically returned,
today
in
fact,
or
to
be
strictly accurate,
on
yesterday.
Where
does
he
live
at
present? I gathered
in
the
course
of
conversation
that
he
had moved. —I
believe
he
is
in
Dublin somewhere, Stephen answered unconcernedly. Why? There
was
no
response
forthcoming
to
the
suggestion
however,
such
as
it
was, Stephen's mind's
eye
being
too
busily engaged
in
repicturing
his
family
hearth
the
last
time
he
saw
it
with
his
sister
Dilly
sitting
by
the ingle, her
hair
hanging down, waiting
for
some
weak
Trinidad shell cocoa
that
was
in
the sootcoated
kettle
to
be
done
so
that
she
and
he
could
drink
it
with
the oatmealwater
for
milk
after
the Friday herrings
they
had eaten
at
two
a
penny
with
an
egg
apiece
for
Maggy, Boody
and
Katey, the
cat
meanwhile under the
mangle
devouring
a
mess
of
eggshells
and
charred
fish
heads
and
bones
on
a
square
of
brown paper,
in
accordance
with
the
third
precept
of
the church
to
fast
and
abstain
on
the days commanded,
it
being
quarter
tense
or
if
not,
ember
days
or
something
like
that. —No, Mr
Bloom
repeated again, I wouldn't personally
repose
much
trust
in
that
boon
companion
of
yours
who
contributes the
humorous
element, Dr Mulligan,
as
a
guide,
philosopher
and
friend
if
I
were
in
your shoes.
He
knows
which
side
his
bread
is
buttered
on
though
in
all
probability
he
never
realised
what
it
is
to
be
without regular meals.
Of
course
you
didn't notice
as
much
as
I did. But
it
wouldn't
occasion
me
the
least
surprise
to
learn
that
a
pinch
of
tobacco
or
some
narcotic
was
put
in
your
drink
for
some
ulterior
object.
He
understood however
from
all
he
heard
that
Dr Mulligan
was
a
versatile
allround man,
by
no
means
confined
to
medicine
only,
who
was
rapidly coming
to
the
fore
in
his
line and,
if
the
report
was
verified, bade
fair
to
enjoy
a
flourishing
practice
in
the not
too
distant
future
as
a
tony
medical
practitioner
drawing
a
handsome
fee
for
his
services
in
addition
to
which
professional
status
his
rescue
of
that
man
from
certain
drowning
by
artificial
respiration
and
what
they
call
first
aid
at
Skerries,
or
Malahide
was
it?, was,
he
was
bound
to
admit, an exceedingly plucky
deed
which
he
could
not
too
highly
praise,
so
that
frankly
he
was
utterly
at
a
loss
to
fathom
what
earthly
reason
could
be
at
the
back
of
it
except
he
put
it
down
to
sheer
cussedness
or
jealousy,
pure
and
simple. —Except
it
simply amounts
to
one
thing
and
he
is
what
they
call
picking your brains,
he
ventured
to
throw out. The guarded glance
of
half
solicitude
half
curiosity
augmented
by
friendliness
which
he
gave
at
Stephen's
at
present
morose
expression
of
features
did
not throw
a
flood
of
light,
none
at
all
in
fact
on
the
problem
as
to
whether
he
had
let
himself
be
badly bamboozled
to
judge
by
two
or
three
lowspirited remarks
he
let
drop
or
the
other
way
about
saw
through the
affair
and
for
some
reason
or
other
best
known
to
himself
allowed matters
to
more
or
less. Grinding
poverty
did
have
that
effect
and
he
more
than
conjectured that, high educational abilities though
he
possessed,
he
experienced no
little
difficulty
in
making both ends meet.
Adjacent
to
the men's public
urinal
they
perceived an icecream
car
round
which
a
group
of
presumably Italians
in
heated
altercation
were
getting
rid
of
voluble
expressions
in
their
vivacious
language
in
a
particularly animated way, there being
some
little
differences
between
the parties. —Now touching
a
cup
of
coffee, Mr
Bloom
ventured
to
plausibly
suggest
to
break
the ice,
it
occurs
to
me
you
ought
to
sample
something
in
the
shape
of
solid
food, say,
a
roll
of
some
description. Stephen,
who
was
trying
his
dead
best
to
yawn
if
he
could, suffering
from
lassitude
generally, replied: —To
fill
the
ear
of
a
cow
elephant.
They
were
haggling
over
money. —Is
that
so? Mr
Bloom
asked.
Of
course,
he
subjoined pensively,
at
the inward
reflection
of
there being
more
languages
to
start
with
than
were
absolutely
necessary,
it
may
be
only
the southern glamour
that
surrounds it. —Sounds
are
impostures, Stephen said
after
a
pause
of
some
little
time,
like
names. Cicero, Podmore. Napoleon, Mr Goodbody. Jesus, Mr Doyle. Shakespeares
were
as
common
as
Murphies. What's
in
a
name? —Yes,
to
be
sure, Mr
Bloom
unaffectedly concurred.
Of
course.
Our
name
was
changed too,
he
added, pushing the socalled
roll
across. The redbearded
sailor
who
had
his
weather
eye
on
the newcomers boarded Stephen,
whom
he
had singled
out
for
attention
in
particular, squarely
by
asking: —And
what
might
your
name
be?
Just
in
the
nick
of
time
Mr
Bloom
touched
his
companion's
boot
but Stephen, apparently disregarding the
warm
pressure
from
an unexpected quarter, answered: —Dedalus. The
sailor
stared
at
him
heavily
from
a
pair
of
drowsy
baggy eyes,
rather
bunged
up
from
excessive
use
of
boose, preferably
good
old
Hollands
and
water. —You
know
Simon Dedalus?
he
asked
at
length. —I've heard
of
him, Stephen said. Mr
Bloom
was
all
at
sea
for
a
moment,
seeing
the others evidently eavesdropping too. —He's Irish, the
seaman
bold
affirmed, staring
still
in
much
the
same
way
and
nodding. All Irish. —All
too
Irish, Stephen rejoined.
As
for
Mr
Bloom
he
could
neither
make
head
or
tail
of
the
whole
business
and
he
was
just
asking
himself
what
possible
connection
when
the
sailor
of
his
own
accord
turned
to
the
other
occupants
of
the shelter
with
the remark: —I seen
him
shoot
two
eggs
off
two
bottles
at
fifty
yards
over
his
shoulder. The lefthand
dead
shot. Though
he
was
slightly hampered
by
an occasional stammer
and
his
gestures being
also
clumsy
as
it
was
still
he
did
his
best
to
explain. —Bottles
out
there, say.
Fifty
yards measured. Eggs
on
the bottles. Cocks
his
gun
over
his
shoulder. Aims.
He
turned
his
body
half round,
shut
up
his
right
eye
completely.
Then
he
screwed
his
features
up
someway sideways
and
glared
out
into
the
night
with
an unprepossessing cast
of
countenance. —Pom!
he
then
shouted once. The
entire
audience
waited, anticipating an additional detonation, there being
still
a
further
egg. —Pom!
he
shouted twice.
Egg
two
evidently demolished,
he
nodded
and
winked, adding bloodthirstily:
A
silence ensued
till
Mr
Bloom
for
agreeableness' sake
just
felt
like
asking
him
whether
it
was
for
a
marksmanship
competition
like
the Bisley. —Beg pardon, the
sailor
said. —Long ago? Mr
Bloom
pursued without flinching
a
hairsbreadth. —Why, the
sailor
replied, relaxing
to
a
certain
extent
under the
magic
influence
of
diamond
cut
diamond,
it
might
be
a
matter
of
ten years.
He
toured the
wide
world
with
Hengler's Royal Circus. I seen
him
do
that
in
Stockholm. —Curious coincidence, Mr
Bloom
confided
to
Stephen unobtrusively. —Murphy's my name, the
sailor
continued. D. B. Murphy
of
Carrigaloe.
Know
where
that
is? —Queenstown harbour, Stephen replied. The sailor,
who
scarcely seemed
to
be
a
Dublin resident, turned
to
one
of
the jarvies
with
the request: —You don't
happen
to
have
such
a
thing
as
a
spare
chaw
about
you? The jarvey addressed
as
it
happened had not but the keeper took
a
die
of
plug
from
his
good
jacket
hanging
on
a
nail
and
the desired
object
was
passed
from
hand
to
hand. —Thank you, the
sailor
said.
He
deposited the
quid
in
his
gob
and, chewing
and
with
some
slow
stammers, proceeded:
In
confirmation
of
which
statement
he
extricated
from
an
inside
pocket
and
handed
to
his
neighbour
a
not
very
cleanlooking folded document. —You
must
have
seen
a
fair
share
of
the world, the keeper remarked, leaning
on
the counter. —You seen queer sights, don't
be
talking,
put
in
a
jarvey. —Why, the
sailor
said, shifting
his
partially chewed plug. I seen queer things too, ups
and
downs. I seen
a
crocodile
bite
the
fluke
of
an
anchor
same
as
I
chew
that
quid.
He
took
out
of
his
mouth
the pulpy
quid
and, lodging
it
between
his
teeth,
bit
ferociously: —Khaan!
Like
that.
And
I seen maneaters
in
Peru
that
eats
corpses
and
the livers
of
horses.
Look
here. Here
they
are.
A
friend
of
mine
sent me. All focussed
their
attention
at
the
scene
exhibited,
a
group
of
savage women
in
striped loincloths, squatted, blinking, suckling, frowning, sleeping
amid
a
swarm
of
infants (there
must
have
been
quite
a
score
of
them) outside
some
primitive
shanties
of
osier. —Chews
coca
all day, the
communicative
tarpaulin added. Stomachs
like
breadgraters. Cuts
off
their
diddies
when
they
can't
bear
no
more
children.
See
them
sitting there
stark
ballocknaked eating
a
dead
horse's
liver
raw.
His
postcard proved
a
centre
of
attraction
for
Messrs the greenhorns
for
several
minutes
if
not more. —Know
how
to
keep
them
off?
he
inquired generally.
Nobody
volunteering
a
statement
he
winked, saying: —Glass.
That
boggles 'em. Glass. —I seen
a
Chinese
one
time, related the
doughty
narrator,
that
had
little
pills
like
putty
and
he
put
them
in
the
water
and
they
opened
and
every
pill
was
something
different.
One
was
a
ship,
another
was
a
house,
another
was
a
flower. Cooks rats
in
your soup,
he
appetisingly added, the chinks does. Possibly perceiving an
expression
of
dubiosity
on
their
faces the globetrotter went on, adhering
to
his
adventures. —And I seen
a
man
killed
in
Trieste
by
an Italian chap. Knife
in
his
back. Knife
like
that. Whilst speaking
he
produced
a
dangerouslooking claspknife
quite
in
keeping
with
his
character
and
held
it
in
the striking position.
His
heavy glance drowsily roaming
about
kind
of
defied
their
further
questions
even
should
they
by
any
chance
want
to. —They're
great
for
the cold steel, somebody
who
was
evidently
quite
in
the dark said
for
the benefit
of
them
all.
That
was
why
they
thought
the park murders
of
the invincibles
was
done
by
foreigners
on
account
of
them
using knives. —Ay, boss, the
sailor
broke
in.
Give
us
back
them
papers. The
request
being complied
with
he
clawed
them
up
with
a
scrape. —Have
you
seen the rock
of
Gibraltar? Mr
Bloom
inquired. The
sailor
grimaced, chewing,
in
a
way
that
might
be
read
as
yes, ay
or
no. —Ah, you've touched there too, Mr
Bloom
said, Europa point, thinking
he
had,
in
the
hope
that
the
rover
might
possibly
by
some
reminiscences but
he
failed
to
do
so, simply letting spirt
a
jet
of
spew
into
the sawdust,
and
shook
his
head
with
a
sort
of
lazy
scorn. —What
year
would
that
be
about? Mr B interrogated.
Can
you
recall the boats? —I'm tired
of
all
them
rocks
in
the sea,
he
said,
and
boats
and
ships.
Salt
junk
all the time. —There
was
a
fellow
sailed
with
me
in
the Rover, the
old
seadog,
himself
a
rover, proceeded, went
ashore
and
took
up
a
soft
job
as
gentleman's
valet
at
six
quid
a
month.
Them
are
his
trousers
I've
on
me
and
he
gave
me
an oilskin
and
that
jackknife. I'm
game
for
that
job, shaving
and
brushup. I
hate
roaming about. There's my
son
now, Danny,
run
off
to
sea
and
his
mother got
him
took
in
a
draper's
in
Cork
where
he
could
be
drawing
easy
money. —What
age
is
he? queried
one
hearer who,
by
the way, seen
from
the side, bore
a
distant
resemblance
to
Henry Campbell, the townclerk,
away
from
the carking
cares
of
office,
unwashed
of
course
and
in
a
seedy getup
and
a
strong
suspicion
of
nosepaint
about
the
nasal
appendage. —Why, the
sailor
answered
with
a
slow
puzzled utterance, my son, Danny? He'd
be
about
eighteen
now,
way
I
figure
it. The Skibbereen father hereupon tore
open
his
grey
or
unclean
anyhow
shirt
with
his
two
hands
and
scratched
away
at
his
chest
on
which
was
to
be
seen an
image
tattooed
in
blue Chinese
ink
intended
to
represent
an anchor. —There
was
lice
in
that
bunk
in
Bridgwater,
he
remarked,
sure
as
nuts. I
must
get
a
wash
tomorrow
or
next
day. It's
them
black
lads I objects to. I
hate
those
buggers.
Suck
your blood dry,
they
does.
Seeing
they
were
all looking
at
his
chest
he
accommodatingly dragged
his
shirt
more
open
so
that
on
top
of
the timehonoured
symbol
of
the mariner's
hope
and
rest
they
had
a
full
view
of
the
figure
16
and
a
young
man's sideface looking frowningly rather. —Tattoo, the
exhibitor
explained.
That
was
done
when
we
were
Iying becalmed
off
Odessa
in
the
Black
Sea
under Captain Dalton. Fellow, the
name
of
Antonio, done that. There
he
is
himself,
a
Greek. —Did
it
hurt
much
doing it?
one
asked the sailor.
That
worthy, however,
was
busily engaged
in
collecting round the. Someway
in
his. Squeezing or. —See here,
he
said, showing Antonio. There
he
is
cursing the mate.
And
there
he
is
now,
he
added, the
same
fellow, pulling the skin
with
his
fingers,
some
special
knack
evidently,
and
he
laughing
at
a
yarn.
And
in
point
of
fact
the
young
man
named Antonio's
livid
face
did
actually
look
like
forced smiling
and
the
curious
effect
excited the unreserved
admiration
of
everybody including Skin-the-Goat,
who
this
time
stretched over. —Ay, ay, sighed the sailor, looking
down
on
his
manly
chest. He's gone too. Ate
by
sharks after. Ay, ay.
He
let
go
of
the skin
so
that
the
profile
resumed the
normal
expression
of
before. —Neat
bit
of
work,
one
longshoreman said. —And what's the
number
for?
loafer
number
two
queried. —Eaten alive?
a
third
asked the sailor. —Ay, ay, sighed
again
the
latter
personage,
more
cheerily
this
time
with
some
sort
of
a
half
smile
for
a
brief
duration
only
in
the
direction
of
the questioner
about
the number. Ate.
A
Greek
he
was.
And
then
he
added
with
rather
gallowsbird humour considering
his
alleged end: The face
of
a
streetwalker glazed
and
haggard
under
a
black
straw
hat
peered
askew
round the
door
of
the shelter palpably reconnoitring
on
her
own
with
the
object
of
bringing
more
grist
to
her mill. Mr Bloom, scarcely knowing
which
way
to
look, turned
away
on
the
moment
flusterfied but outwardly calm, and, picking
up
from
the table the
pink
sheet
of
the
Abbey
street
organ
which
the jarvey,
if
such
he
was, had laid aside,
he
picked
it
up
and
looked
at
the
pink
of
the paper though
why
pink.
His
reason
for
so
doing
was
he
recognised
on
the
moment
round the
door
the
same
face
he
had caught
a
fleeting
glimpse
of
that
afternoon
on
Ormond quay, the partially
idiotic
female, namely,
of
the
lane
who
knew the
lady
in
the brown
costume
does
be
with
you
(Mrs B.)
and
begged the
chance
of
his
washing.
Also
why
washing
which
seemed
rather
vague
than
not, your washing.
Still
candour
compelled
him
to
admit
he
had washed
his
wife's undergarments
when
soiled
in
Holles
street
and
women would
and
did
too
a
man's
similar
garments initialled
with
Bewley
and
Draper's
marking
ink
(hers were,
that
is)
if
they
really loved him,
that
is
to
say,
love
me,
love
my dirty shirt.
Still
just
then, being
on
tenterhooks,
he
desired the female's
room
more
than
her
company
so
it
came
as
a
genuine
relief
when
the keeper
made
her
a
rude
sign
to
take
herself off. Round the
side
of
the
Evening
Telegraph
he
just
caught
a
fleeting
glimpse
of
her face round the
side
of
the
door
with
a
kind
of
demented glassy grin showing
that
she
was
not exactly all there, viewing
with
evident
amusement
the
group
of
gazers round
skipper
Murphy's
nautical
chest
and
then
there
was
no
more
of
her. —The gunboat, the keeper said. —It beats me, Mr
Bloom
confided
to
Stephen, medically I
am
speaking,
how
a
wretched
creature
like
that
from
the
Lock
hospital
reeking
with
disease
can
be
barefaced
enough
to
solicit
or
how
any
man
in
his
sober senses,
if
he
values
his
health
in
the least. Unfortunate creature!
Of
course
I
suppose
some
man
is
ultimately
responsible
for
her condition.
Still
no
matter
what
the
cause
is
from... Stephen had not noticed her
and
shrugged
his
shoulders, merely remarking: —In
this
country
people
sell
much
more
than
she
ever
had
and
do
a
roaring trade.
Fear
not
them
that
sell
the
body
but
have
not power
to
buy
the soul.
She
is
a
bad
merchant.
She
buys
dear
and
sells cheap. —You
as
a
good
catholic,
he
observed, talking
of
body
and
soul,
believe
in
the soul.
Or
do
you
mean
the intelligence, the brainpower
as
such,
as
distinct
from
any
outside object, the table,
let
us
say,
that
cup. I
believe
in
that
myself
because
it
has been explained
by
competent
men
as
the convolutions
of
the grey matter.
Otherwise
we
would
never
have
such
inventions
as
X rays,
for
instance.
Do
you?
Thus
cornered, Stephen had
to
make
a
superhuman
effort
of
memory
to
try
and
concentrate
and
remember
before
he
could
say: Mr
Bloom
thoroughly acquiesced
in
the
general
gist
of
this
though the mystical finesse involved
was
a
bit
out
of
his
sublunary
depth
still
he
felt bound
to
enter
a
demurrer
on
the
head
of
simple, promptly rejoining: —Simple? I shouldn't
think
that
is
the
proper
word.
Of
course, I
grant
you,
to
concede
a
point,
you
do
knock
across
a
simple
soul
once
in
a
blue moon. But
what
I
am
anxious
to
arrive
at
is
it
is
one
thing
for
instance
to
invent
those
rays Rontgen
did
or
the telescope
like
Edison, though I
believe
it
was
before
his
time
Galileo
was
the man, I mean,
and
the
same
applies
to
the laws,
for
example,
of
a
farreaching
natural
phenomenon
such
as
electricity
but it's
a
horse
of
quite
another
colour
to
say
you
believe
in
the
existence
of
a
supernatural God. —O that, Stephen expostulated, has been proved conclusively
by
several
of
the bestknown passages
in
Holy
Writ,
apart
from
circumstantial
evidence.
On
this
knotty
point
however the views
of
the pair, poles
apart
as
they
were
both
in
schooling
and
everything
else
with
the
marked
difference
in
their
respective
ages, clashed. —Couldn't, Stephen contrived
to
get
out,
his
mental
organs
for
the
moment
refusing
to
dictate
further. Faultfinding being
a
proverbially
bad
hat
Mr
Bloom
thought
well
to
stir
or
try
to
the clotted sugar
from
the bottom
and
reflected
with
something
approaching
acrimony
on
the
Coffee
Palace
and
its
temperance
(and lucrative) work.
To
be
sure
it
was
a
legitimate
object
and
beyond
yea
or
nay
did
a
world
of
good, shelters
such
as
the
present
one
they
were
in
run
on
teetotal
lines
for
vagrants
at
night, concerts,
dramatic
evenings
and
useful lectures (admittance free)
by
qualified men
for
the
lower
orders.
On
the
other
hand
he
had
a
distinct
and
painful
recollection
they
paid
his
wife, Madam Marion Tweedy
who
had been prominently associated
with
it
at
one
time,
a
very
modest
remuneration
indeed
for
her pianoplaying. The idea,
he
was
strongly
inclined
to
believe,
was
to
do
good
and
net
a
profit, there being no
competition
to
speak
of. Sulphate
of
copper
poison
SO4
or
something
in
some
dried peas
he
remembered
reading
of
in
a
cheap
eatinghouse somewhere but
he
couldn't
remember
when
it
was
or
where.
Anyhow
inspection, medical inspection,
of
all eatables seemed
to
him
more
than
ever
necessary
which
possibly accounted
for
the
vogue
of
Dr Tibble's Vi-Cocoa
on
account
of
the medical
analysis
involved. —Have
a
shot
at
it
now,
he
ventured
to
say
of
the
coffee
after
being stirred.
Thus
prevailed
on
to
at
any
rate
taste
it
Stephen lifted the heavy
mug
from
the brown puddle
it
clopped
out
of
when
taken
up
by
the
handle
and
took
a
sip
of
the offending beverage. —Liquids I
can
eat, Stephen said. But O,
oblige
me
by
taking
away
that
knife. I can't
look
at
the
point
of
it.
It
reminds
me
of
Roman
history. Mr
Bloom
promptly
did
as
suggested
and
removed the incriminated article,
a
blunt hornhandled
ordinary
knife
with
nothing
particularly
Roman
or
antique
about
it
to
the
lay
eye, observing
that
the
point
was
the
least
conspicuous
point
about
it.
Yet
still
though
his
eyes
were
thick
with
sleep
and
sea
air
life
was
full
of
a
host
of
things
and
coincidences
of
a
terrible
nature
and
it
was
quite
within the bounds
of
possibility
that
it
was
not an
entire
fabrication
though
at
first blush there
was
not
much
inherent
probability
in
all the spoof
he
got
off
his
chest
being strictly
accurate
gospel. —Mind you, I'm not
saying
that
it's all
a
pure
invention,
he
resumed.
Analogous
scenes
are
occasionally,
if
not often, met with. Giants, though
that
is
rather
a
far
cry,
you
see
once
in
a
way, Marcella the
midget
queen.
In
those
waxworks
in
Henry
street
I
myself
saw
some
Aztecs,
as
they
are
called, sitting bowlegged,
they
couldn't
straighten
their
legs
if
you
paid
them
because
the muscles here,
you
see,
he
proceeded, indicating
on
his
companion
the
brief
outline
of
the sinews
or
whatever
you
like
to
call
them
behind
the
right
knee,
were
utterly
powerless
from
sitting
that
way
so
long
cramped up, being adored
as
gods. There's an
example
again
of
simple
souls. —Spaniards,
for
instance,
he
continued,
passionate
temperaments
like
that,
impetuous
as
Old
Nick,
are
given
to
taking the
law
into
their
own
hands
and
give
you
your
quietus
doublequick
with
those
poignards
they
carry
in
the abdomen.
It
comes
from
the
great
heat,
climate
generally. My
wife
is,
so
to
speak, Spanish, half
that
is.
Point
of
fact
she
could
actually
claim
Spanish
nationality
if
she
wanted, having been born
in
(technically) Spain, i.e. Gibraltar.
She
has the Spanish type.
Quite
dark, regular brunette, black. I
for
one
certainly
believe
climate
accounts
for
character. That's
why
I asked
you
if
you
wrote your
poetry
in
Italian. —Quite so, Mr
Bloom
dittoed. —Then, Stephen said staring
and
rambling
on
to
himself
or
some
unknown
listener somewhere,
we
have
the
impetuosity
of
Dante
and
the
isosceles
triangle
miss
Portinari
he
fell
in
love
with
and
Leonardo
and
san Tommaso Mastino. —It's
in
the blood, Mr
Bloom
acceded
at
once. All
are
washed
in
the blood
of
the sun.
Coincidence
I
just
happened
to
be
in
the Kildare
street
museum
890 today,
shortly
prior
to
our
meeting
if
I
can
so
call
it,
and
I
was
just
looking
at
those
antique statues there. The
splendid
proportions
of
hips, bosom.
You
simply don't
knock
against
those
kind
of
women here. An
exception
here
and
there. Handsome yes, pretty
in
a
way
you
find but
what
I'm talking
about
is
the
female
form. Besides
they
have
so
little
taste
in
dress,
most
of
them,
which
greatly
enhances
a
woman's
natural
beauty, no
matter
what
you
say. Rumpled stockings,
it
may
be, possibly is,
a
foible
of
mine
but
still
it's
a
thing
I simply
hate
to
see. Interest, however,
was
starting
to
flag
somewhat
all round
and
then
the others got
on
to
talking
about
accidents
at
sea, ships lost
in
a
fog,
goo
collisions
with
icebergs, all
that
sort
of
thing. Shipahoy
of
course
had
his
own
say
to
say.
He
had doubled the
cape
a
few
odd
times
and
weathered
a
monsoon,
a
kind
of
wind,
in
the China seas
and
through all
those
perils
of
the
deep
there
was
one
thing,
he
declared, stood
to
him
or
words
to
that
effect,
a
pious
medal
he
had
that
saved him.
At
this
stage
an
incident
happened.
It
having
become
necessary
for
him
to
unfurl
a
reef
the
sailor
vacated
his
seat. —Let
me
cross
your bows mate,
he
said
to
his
neighbour
who
was
just
gently dropping
off
into
a
peaceful doze.
He
made
tracks heavily,
slowly
with
a
dumpy
sort
of
a
gait
to
the door, stepped
heavily
down
the
one
step
there
was
out
of
the shelter
and
bore
due
left.
While
he
was
in
the
act
of
getting
his
bearings Mr
Bloom
who
noticed
when
he
stood
up
that
he
had
two
flasks
of
presumably ship's
rum
sticking
one
out
of
each
pocket
for
the
private
consumption
of
his
burning
interior,
saw
him
produce
a
bottle
and
uncork
it
or
unscrew and, applying its nozz1e
to
his
lips,
take
a
good
old
delectable
swig
out
of
it
with
a
gurgling noise. The irrepressible Bloom,
who
also
had
a
shrewd
suspicion
that
the
old
stager went
out
on
a
manoeuvre
after
the counterattraction
in
the
shape
of
a
female
who
however had disappeared
to
all intents
and
purposes,
could
by
straining
just
perceive
him,
when
duly refreshed
by
his
rum
puncheon
exploit, gaping
up
at
the piers
and
girders
of
the Loop line
rather
out
of
his
depth
as
of
course
it
was
all radically altered
since
his
last
visit
and
greatly
improved.
Some
person
or
persons
invisible
directed
him
to
the
male
urinal
erected
by
the
cleansing
committee
all
over
the
place
for
the
purpose
but
after
a
brief
space
of
time
during
which
silence reigned
supreme
the sailor, evidently giving
it
a
wide
berth, eased
himself
closer
at
hand, the
noise
of
his
bilgewater
some
little
time
subsequently splashing
on
the ground
where
it
apparently awoke
a
horse
of
the cabrank.
A
hoof
scooped
anyway
for
new
foothold
after
sleep
and
harness
jingled. Slightly disturbed
in
his
sentrybox
by
the
brazier
of
live
coke
the watcher
of
the
corporation
stones who, though
now
broken
down
and
fast
breaking up,
was
none
other
in
stern
reality
than
the Gumley aforesaid,
now
practically
on
the
parish
rates,
given
the
temporary
job
by
Pat Tobin
in
all
human
probability
from
dictates
of
humanity
knowing
him
before shifted
about
and
shuffled
in
his
box
before composing
his
limbs
again
in
to
the arms
of
Morpheus,
a
truly
amazing
piece
of
hard
lines
in
its
most
virulent
form
on
a
fellow
most
respectably connected
and
familiarised
with
decent
home
comforts all
his
life
who
came
in
for
a
cool 100 pounds
a
year
at
one
time
which
of
course
the doublebarrelled
ass
proceeded
to
make
general
ducks
and
drakes of.
And
there
he
was
at
the
end
of
his
tether
after
having
often
painted the
town
tolerably
pink
without
a
beggarly stiver.
He
drank needless
to
be
told
and
it
pointed
only
once
more
a
moral
when
he
might
quite
easily
be
in
a
large
way
of
business
if—a
big
if, however—he had contrived
to
cure
himself
of
his
particular
partiality. All meantime
were
loudly lamenting the falling
off
in
Irish shipping, coastwise
and
foreign
as
well,
which
was
all
part
and
parcel
of
the
same
thing.
A
Palgrave Murphy
boat
was
put
off
the ways
at
Alexandra basin, the
only
launch
that
year.
Right
enough
the harbours
were
there
only
no ships
ever
called.
What
he
wanted
to
ascertain
was
why
that
ship
ran
bang
against the
only
rock
in
Galway
bay
when
the Galway harbour scheme
was
mooted
by
a
Mr Worthington
or
some
name
like
that, eh?
Ask
the
then
captain,
he
advised them,
how
much
palmoil the British
government
gave
him
for
that
day's work, Captain John
Lever
of
the
Lever
Line. —Am I right, skipper?
he
queried
of
the sailor,
now
returning
after
his
private
potation
and
the
rest
of
his
exertions. —Take
a
bit
of
doing, boss, retaliated
that
rough
diamond
palpably
a
bit
peeved
in
response
to
the foregoing truism.
To
which
cold
douche
referring
to
downfall
and
so
on
the keeper concurred but
nevertheless
held
to
his
main
view. —Who's the
best
troops
in
the army? the
grizzled
old
veteran
irately interrogated.
And
the
best
jumpers
and
racers?
And
the
best
admirals
and
generals we've got?
Tell
me
that. —The Irish,
for
choice, retorted the cabby
like
Campbell,
facial
blemishes apart. —That's right, the
old
tarpaulin corroborated. The Irish catholic peasant. He's the backbone
of
our
empire.
You
know
Jem Mullins?
While
allowing
him
his
individual
opinions
as
everyman the keeper added
he
cared
nothing
for
any
empire, ours
or
his,
and
considered no Irishman
worthy
of
his
salt
that
served it.
Then
they
began
to
have
a
few
irascible
words
when
it
waxed hotter, both, needless
to
say, appealing
to
the listeners
who
followed the
passage
of
arms
with
interest
so
long
as
they
didn't
indulge
in
recriminations
and
come
to
blows. —He took
umbrage
at
something
or
other,
that
muchinjured but
on
the
whole
eventempered
person
declared, I
let
slip.
He
called
me
a
jew
and
in
a
heated
fashion
offensively.
So
I without deviating
from
plain
facts
in
the
least
told
him
his
God, I
mean
Christ,
was
a
jew
too
and
all
his
family
like
me
though
in
reality
I'm not.
That
was
one
for
him.
A
soft
answer
turns
away
wrath.
He
hadn't
a
word
to
say
for
himself
as
everyone saw.
Am
I not right?
He
turned
a
long
you
are
wrong
gaze
on
Stephen
of
timorous
dark
pride
at
the
soft
impeachment
with
a
glance
also
of
entreaty
for
he
seemed
to
glean
in
a
kind
of
a
way
that
it
wasn't all exactly. —Of course, Mr B. proceeded
to
stipulate,
you
must
look
at
both sides
of
the question.
It
is
hard
to
lay
down
any
hard
and
fast
rules
as
to
right
and
wrong
but
room
for
improvement
all round there certainly
is
though
every
country,
they
say,
our
own
distressful included, has the
government
it
deserves. But
with
a
little
goodwill all round. It's all
very
fine
to
boast
of
mutual
superiority
but
what
about
mutual equality. I
resent
violence
and
intolerance
in
any
shape
or
form.
It
never
reaches
anything
or
stops anything.
A
revolution
must
come
on
the
due
instalments plan. It's
a
patent
absurdity
on
the face
of
it
to
hate
people
because
they
live
round the
corner
and
speak
another
vernacular,
in
the
next
house
so
to
speak. —Memorable
bloody
bridge
battle
and
seven
minutes' war, Stephen assented,
between
Skinner's
alley
and
Ormond market. Yes, Mr
Bloom
thoroughly agreed, entirely endorsing the remark,
that
was
overwhelmingly right.
And
the
whole
world
was
full
of
that
sort
of
thing. —You
just
took the words
out
of
my mouth,
he
said.
A
hocuspocus
of
conflicting evidence
that
candidly
you
couldn't remotely... All
those
wretched quarrels,
in
his
humble
opinion, stirring
up
bad
blood,
from
some
bump
of
combativeness
or
gland
of
some
kind, erroneously supposed
to
be
about
a
punctilio
of
honour
and
a
flag,
were
very
largely
a
question
of
the
money
question
which
was
at
the
back
of
everything greed
and
jealousy,
people
never
knowing
when
to
stop. —They accuse, remarked
he
audibly.
He
turned
away
from
the others
who
probably
and
spoke
nearer to,
so
as
the others
in
case
they.
Over
his
untastable
apology
for
a
cup
of
coffee, listening
to
this
synopsis
of
things
in
general, Stephen stared
at
nothing
in
particular.
He
could
hear,
of
course, all kinds
of
words changing colour
like
those
crabs
about
Ringsend
in
the
morning
burrowing
quickly
into
all colours
of
different
sorts
of
the
same
sand
where
they
had
a
home
somewhere beneath
or
seemed to.
Then
he
looked
up
and
saw
the eyes
that
said
or
didn't
say
the words the voice
he
heard said,
if
you
work. —Count
me
out,
he
managed
to
remark, meaning work. The eyes
were
surprised
at
this
observation
because
as
he, the
person
who
owned
them
pro tem. observed
or
rather
his
voice speaking did, all
must
work,
have
to, together. —I mean,
of
course, the
other
hastened
to
affirm,
work
in
the widest
possible
sense.
Also
literary
labour not merely
for
the
kudos
of
the thing.
Writing
for
the newspapers
which
is
the readiest channel nowadays. That's
work
too.
Important
work.
After
all,
from
the
little
I
know
of
you,
after
all the
money
expended
on
your
education
you
are
entitled
to
recoup
yourself
and
command
your price.
You
have
every
bit
as
much
right
to
live
by
your pen
in
pursuit
of
your
philosophy
as
the
peasant
has. What?
You
both
belong
to
Ireland, the
brain
and
the brawn.
Each
is
equally important. —I would
go
a
step
farther, Mr
Bloom
insinuated. —But I suspect, Stephen interrupted,
that
Ireland
must
be
important
because
it
belongs
to
me. —What belongs, queried Mr
Bloom
bending, fancying
he
was
perhaps
under
some
misapprehension.
Excuse
me. Unfortunately, I didn't
catch
the
latter
portion.
What
was
it
you...? Stephen, patently crosstempered, repeated
and
shoved
aside
his
mug
of
coffee
or
whatever
you
like
to
call
it
none
too
politely, adding: 1170 —We can't
change
the country.
Let
us
change
the subject.
So
to
change
the
subject
he
read
about
Dignam R. I. P. which,
he
reflected,
was
anything
but
a
gay
sendoff.
Or
a
change
of
address
anyway. —Is
that
first
epistle
to
the Hebrews,
he
asked
as
soon
as
his
bottom
jaw
would
let
him, in? Text:
open
thy
mouth
and
put
thy
foot
in
it. —It is. Really, Mr
Bloom
said (though first
he
fancied
he
alluded
to
the
archbishop
till
he
added
about
foot
and
mouth
with
which
there
could
be
no
possible
connection) overjoyed
to
set
his
mind
at
rest
and
a
bit
flabbergasted
at
Myles Crawford's
after
all managing to. There. —There
was
every
indication
they
would
arrive
at
that, he, Bloom, said. —Who? the other,
whose
hand
by
the
way
was
hurt, said. —That bitch,
that
English whore,
did
for
him, the
shebeen
proprietor commented.
She
put
the first
nail
in
his
coffin. —Ay, Skin-the-Goat amusingly added,
he
was
and
a
cottonball one. —Just bears
out
what
I
was
saying, he,
with
glowing
bosom
said
to
Stephen,
about
blood
and
the sun. And,
if
I don't
greatly
mistake
she
was
Spanish too. —The
king
of
Spain's daughter, Stephen answered, adding
something
or
other
rather
muddled
about
farewell
and
adieu
to
you
Spanish onions
and
the first
land
called the Deadman
and
from
Ramhead
to
Scilly
was
so
and
so
many. —Was she?
Bloom
ejaculated, surprised though not astonished
by
any
means, I
never
heard
that
rumour before. Possible, especially there,
it
was
as
she
lived there. So, Spain. —Do
you
consider,
by
the by,
he
said, thoughtfully selecting
a
faded photo
which
he
laid
on
the table,
that
a
Spanish type?
Beside
the
young
man
he
looked
also
at
the photo
of
the
lady
now
his
1440
legal
wife
who,
he
intimated,
was
the accomplished
daughter
of
Major
Brian Tweedy
and
displayed
at
an
early
age
remarkable
proficiency
as
a
singer
having
even
made
her
bow
to
the public
when
her years numbered
barely
sweet
sixteen.
As
for
the face
it
was
a
speaking
likeness
in
expression
but
it
did
not
do
justice
to
her
figure
which
came
in
for
a
lot
of
notice usually
and
which
did
not
come
out
to
the
best
advantage
in
that
getup.
She
could
without difficulty,
he
said,
have
posed
for
the ensemble, not
to
dwell
on
certain
opulent
curves
of
the.
He
dwelt, being
a
bit
of
an
artist
in
his
spare
time,
on
the
female
form
in
general
developmentally because,
as
it
so
happened, no later
than
that
afternoon
he
had seen
those
Grecian statues, 1450 perfectly developed
as
works
of
art,
in
the
National
Museum. Marble
could
give
the original, shoulders, back, all the symmetry, all the rest. Yes, puritanisme,
it
does though Saint Joseph's
sovereign
thievery
alors (Bandez!) Figne toi trop. Whereas no photo
could
because
it
simply wasn't
art
in
a
word. —At
what
o'clock
did
you
dine?
he
questioned
of
the slim
form
and
tired though unwrinkled face. —Some
time
yesterday, Stephen said. —Yesterday! exclaimed
Bloom
till
he
remembered
it
was
already
tomorrow
Friday. Ah,
you
mean
it's
after
twelve! —The
day
before yesterday, Stephen said, improving
on
himself. —I propose,
our
hero
eventually suggested
after
mature
reflection
while
prudently pocketing her photo,
as
it's
rather
stuffy here
you
just
come
home
with
me
and
talk things over. My diggings
are
quite
close
in
the vicinity.
You
can't
drink
that
stuff.
Do
you
like
cocoa? Wait. I'll
just
pay
this
lot. The
best
plan
clearly being
to
clear out, the
remainder
being
plain
sailing,
he
beckoned,
while
prudently pocketing the photo,
to
the keeper
of
the
shanty
who
didn't
seem
to. —Yes, that's the best,
he
assured Stephen
to
whom
for
the
matter
of
that
Brazen
Head
or
him
or
anywhere
else
was
all
more
or
less. All kinds
of
Utopian plans
were
flashing through
his
(B's)
busy
brain,
education
(the
genuine
article), literature, journalism,
prize
titbits,
up
to
date billing,
concert
tours
in
English
watering
resorts packed
with
hydros
and
seaside
theatres, turning
money
away, duets
in
Italian
with
the
accent
perfectly true
to
nature
and
a
quantity
of
other
things, no necessity,
of
course,
to
tell
the
world
and
his
wife
from
the housetops
about
it,
and
a
slice
of
luck. An
opening
was
all
was
wanted.
Because
he
more
than
suspected
he
had
his
father's voice
to
bank
his
hopes
on
which
it
was
quite
on
the cards
he
had
so
it
would
be
just
as
well,
by
the
way
no harm,
to
trail the
conversation
in
the
direction
of
that
particular
red
herring
just
to. The cabby read
out
of
the paper
he
had got
hold
of
that
the
former
viceroy,
earl
Cadogan, had presided
at
the cabdrivers'
association
dinner
in
London somewhere. Silence
with
a
yawn
or
two
accompanied
this
thrilling announcement.
Then
the
old
specimen
in
the
corner
who
appeared
to
have
some
spark
of
vitality
left
read
out
that
sir Anthony MacDonnell had
left
Euston
for
the
chief
secretary's
lodge
or
words
to
that
effect.
To
which
absorbing
piece
of
intelligence
echo
answered why. —Give
us
a
squint
at
that
literature, grandfather, the
ancient
mariner
put
in, manifesting
some
natural
impatience. —And welcome, answered the
elderly
party
thus
addressed. The
sailor
lugged
out
from
a
case
he
had
a
pair
of
greenish goggles
which
he
very
slowly
hooked
over
his
nose
and
both ears. —Are
you
bad
in
the eyes? the
sympathetic
personage
like
the townclerk queried. Hereupon
he
pawed the
journal
open
and
pored
upon
Lord
only
knows what, found drowned
or
the exploits
of
King
Willow, Iremonger having
made
a
hundred
and
something
second
wicket
not
out
for
Notts,
during
which
time
(completely regardless
of
Ire) the keeper
was
intensely occupied loosening an apparently
new
or
secondhand
boot
which
manifestly pinched
him
as
he
muttered against
whoever
it
was
sold it, all
of
them
who
were
sufficiently
awake
enough
to
be
picked
out
by
their
facial
expressions,
that
is
to
say, either simply looking
on
glumly
or
passing
a
trivial
remark.
To
cut
a
long
story
short
Bloom, grasping the situation,
was
the first
to
rise
from
his
seat
so
as
not
to
outstay
their
welcome
having first
and
foremost, being
as
good
as
his
word
that
he
would
foot
the
bill
for
the occasion, taken the
wise
precaution
to
unobtrusively
motion
to
mine
host
as
a
parting
shot
a
scarcely
perceptible
sign
when
the others
were
not looking
to
the
effect
that
the amount
due
was
forthcoming, making
a
grand
total
of
fourpence (the amount
he
deposited unobtrusively
in
four coppers, literally the
last
of
the Mohicans),
he
having previously spotted
on
the printed pricelist
for
all
who
ran
to
read
opposite
him
in
unmistakable figures,
coffee
2d, confectionery do,
and
honestly
well
worth
twice
the
money
once
in
a
way,
as
Wetherup used
to
remark. —One
thing
I
never
understood,
he
said
to
be
original
on
the
spur
of
the moment.
Why
they
put
tables upside
down
at
night, I
mean
chairs upside down,
on
the tables
in
cafes.
To
which
impromptu the neverfailing
Bloom
replied without
a
moment's hesitation,
saying
straight off: —To
sweep
the
floor
in
the morning.
So
saying
he
skipped around, nimbly considering, frankly
at
the
same
time
apologetic
to
get
on
his
companion's right,
a
habit
of
his,
by
the bye,
his
right
side
being,
in
classical idiom,
his
tender
Achilles. The
night
air
was
certainly
now
a
treat
to
breathe
though Stephen
was
a
bit
weak
on
his
pins. —It
will
(the air)
do
you
good,
Bloom
said, meaning
also
the walk,
in
a
moment. The
only
thing
is
to
walk
then
you'll feel
a
different
man. Come. It's not far.
Lean
on
me. Accordingly
he
passed
his
left
arm
in
Stephen's
right
and
led
him
on
accordingly. —Yes, Stephen said uncertainly
because
he
thought
he
felt
a
strange
kind
of
flesh
of
a
different
man
approach him, sinewless
and
wobbly
and
all that.
On
the roadway
which
they
were
approaching whilst
still
speaking
beyond
the swingchains
a
horse, dragging
a
sweeper, paced
on
the paven ground, brushing
a
long
swathe
of
mire
up
so
that
with
the
noise
Bloom
was
not perfectly
certain
whether
he
had caught
aright
the
allusion
to
sixtyfive guineas
and
John Bull.
He
inquired
if
it
was
John
Bull
the
political
celebrity
of
that
ilk,
as
it
struck him, the
two
identical
names,
as
a
striking coincidence.
By
the chains the
horse
slowly
swerved
to
turn,
which
perceiving, Bloom,
who
was
keeping
a
sharp lookout
as
usual, plucked the other's
sleeve
gently, jocosely remarking: —Our lives
are
in
peril
tonight.
Beware
of
the steamroller.
They
thereupon stopped.
Bloom
looked
at
the
head
of
a
horse
not
worth
anything
like
sixtyfive guineas, suddenly
in
evidence
in
the dark
quite
near
so
that
it
seemed new,
a
different
grouping
of
bones
and
even
flesh
because
palpably
it
was
a
fourwalker,
a
hipshaker,
a
blackbuttocker,
a
taildangler,
a
headhanger putting
his
hind
foot
foremost
the
while
the lord
of
his
creation
sat
on
the perch,
busy
with
his
thoughts. But
such
a
good
poor
brute
he
was
sorry
he
hadn't
a
lump
of
sugar but,
as
he
wisely
reflected,
you
could
scarcely
be
prepared
for
every
emergency
that
might
crop up.
He
was
just
a
big
nervous
foolish
noodly
kind
of
a
horse, without
a
second
care
in
the world. But
even
a
dog,
he
reflected,
take
that
mongrel
in
Barney Kiernan's,
of
the
same
size, would
be
a
holy
horror
to
face. But
it
was
no animal's fault
in
particular
if
he
was
built
that
way
like
the camel,
ship
of
the desert, distilling grapes
into
potheen
in
his
hump.
Nine
tenths
of
them
all
could
be
caged
or
trained,
nothing
beyond
the
art
of
man
barring the bees. Whale
with
a
harpoon hairpin,
alligator
tickle
the small
of
his
back
and
he
sees the joke,
chalk
a
circle
for
a
rooster,
tiger
my
eagle
eye.
These
timely
reflections
anent
the brutes
of
the
field
occupied
his
mind
somewhat
distracted
from
Stephen's words
while
the
ship
of
the
street
was
manoeuvring
and
Stephen went
on
about
the
highly
interesting old.
He
looked sideways
in
a
friendly
fashion
at
the sideface
of
Stephen,
image
of
his
mother,
which
was
not
quite
the
same
as
the
usual
handsome blackguard type
they
unquestionably had an
insatiable
hankering
after
as
he
was
perhaps
not
that
way
built. Still, supposing
he
had
his
father's
gift
as
he
more
than
suspected,
it
opened
up
new
vistas
in
his
mind
such
as
Lady
Fingall's Irish industries,
concert
on
the preceding Monday,
and
aristocracy
in
general. The
horse
having reached the
end
of
his
tether,
so
to
speak, halted and, rearing high
a
proud
feathering tail, added
his
quota
by
letting
fall
on
the
floor
which
the brush would
soon
brush
up
and
polish,
three
smoking globes
of
turds.
Slowly
three
times,
one
after
another,
from
a
full
crupper
he
mired.
And
humanely
his
driver waited
till
he
(or she) had ended,
patient
in
his
scythed car.