1The superior, the very reverend John Conmee S. J. reset his smooth watch in his interior pocket as he came down the presbytery steps. Five to three. Just nice time to walk to Artane. What was that boy’s name again? Dignam. Yes. Vere dignum et iustum est. Brother Swan was the person to see. Mr Cunningham’s letter. Yes. Oblige him, if possible. Good practical catholic: useful at mission time.

2A onelegged sailor, swinging himself onward by lazy jerks of his crutches, growled some notes. He jerked short before the convent of the sisters of charity and held out a peaked cap for alms towards the very reverend John Conmee S. J. Father Conmee blessed him in the sun for his purse held, he knew, one silver crown.

3Father Conmee crossed to Mountjoy square. He thought, but not for long, of soldiers and sailors, whose legs had been shot off by cannonballs, ending their days in some pauper ward, and of cardinal Wolsey’s words: If I had served my God as I have served my king He would not have abandoned me in my old days. He walked by the treeshade of sunnywinking leaves: and towards him came the wife of Mr David Sheehy M.P.

4—Very well, indeed, father. And you, father?

5Father Conmee was wonderfully well indeed. He would go to Buxton probably for the waters. And her boys, were they getting on well at Belvedere? Was that so? Father Conmee was very glad indeed to hear that. And Mr Sheehy himself? Still in London. The house was still sitting, to be sure it was. Beautiful weather it was, delightful indeed. Yes, it was very probable that Father Bernard Vaughan would come again to preach. O, yes: a very great success. A wonderful man really.

6Father Conmee was very glad to see the wife of Mr David Sheehy M.P. Iooking so well and he begged to be remembered to Mr David Sheehy M.P. Yes, he would certainly call.

7—Good afternoon, Mrs Sheehy.

8Father Conmee doffed his silk hat and smiled, as he took leave, at the jet beads of her mantilla inkshining in the sun. And smiled yet again, in going. He had cleaned his teeth, he knew, with arecanut paste.

9Father Conmee walked and, walking, smiled for he thought on Father Bernard Vaughan’s droll eyes and cockney voice.

10—Pilate! Wy don’t you old back that owlin mob?

11A zealous man, however. Really he was. And really did great good in his way. Beyond a doubt. He loved Ireland, he said, and he loved the Irish. Of good family too would one think it? Welsh, were they not?

12O, lest he forget. That letter to father provincial.

13Father Conmee stopped three little schoolboys at the corner of Mountjoy square. Yes: they were from Belvedere. The little house. Aha. And were they good boys at school? O. That was very good now. And what was his name? Jack Sohan. And his name? Ger. Gallaher. And the other little man? His name was Brunny Lynam. O, that was a very nice name to have.

14Father Conmee gave a letter from his breast to Master Brunny Lynam and pointed to the red pillarbox at the corner of Fitzgibbon street.

15—But mind you don’t post yourself into the box, little man, he said.

16The boys sixeyed Father Conmee and laughed:

17—O, sir.

18—Well, let me see if you can post a letter, Father Conmee said.

19Master Brunny Lynam ran across the road and put Father Conmee’s letter to father provincial into the mouth of the bright red letterbox. Father Conmee smiled and nodded and smiled and walked along Mountjoy square east.

20Mr Denis J Maginni, professor of dancing &c, in silk hat, slate frockcoat with silk facings, white kerchief tie, tight lavender trousers, canary gloves and pointed patent boots, walking with grave deportment most respectfully took the curbstone as he passed lady Maxwell at the corner of Dignam’s court.

21Was that not Mrs M’Guinness?

22Mrs M’Guinness, stately, silverhaired, bowed to Father Conmee from the farther footpath along which she sailed. And Father Conmee smiled and saluted. How did she do?

23A fine carriage she had. Like Mary, queen of Scots, something. And to think that she was a pawnbroker! Well, now! Such a... what should he say? ... such a queenly mien.

24Father Conmee walked down Great Charles street and glanced at the shutup free church on his left. The reverend T. R. Greene B.A. will (D.V.) speak. The incumbent they called him. He felt it incumbent on him to say a few words. But one should be charitable. Invincible ignorance. They acted according to their lights.

25Father Conmee turned the corner and walked along the North Circular road. It was a wonder that there was not a tramline in such an important thoroughfare. Surely, there ought to be.

26A band of satchelled schoolboys crossed from Richmond street. All raised untidy caps. Father Conmee greeted them more than once benignly. Christian brother boys.

27Father Conmee smelt incense on his right hand as he walked. Saint Joseph’s church, Portland row. For aged and virtuous females. Father Conmee raised his hat to the Blessed Sacrament. Virtuous: but occasionally they were also badtempered.

28Near Aldborough house Father Conmee thought of that spendthrift nobleman. And now it was an office or something.

29Father Conmee began to walk along the North Strand road and was saluted by Mr William Gallagher who stood in the doorway of his shop. Father Conmee saluted Mr William Gallagher and perceived the odours that came from baconflitches and ample cools of butter. He passed Grogan’s the Tobacconist against which newsboards leaned and told of a dreadful catastrophe in New York. In America those things were continually happening. Unfortunate people to die like that, unprepared. Still, an act of perfect contrition.

30Father Conmee went by Daniel Bergin’s publichouse against the window of which two unlabouring men lounged. They saluted him and were saluted.

31Father Conmee passed H. J. O’Neill’s funeral establishment where Corny Kelleher totted figures in the daybook while he chewed a blade of hay. A constable on his beat saluted Father Conmee and Father Conmee saluted the constable. In Youkstetter’s, the porkbutcher’s, Father Conmee observed pig’s puddings, white and black and red, lie neatly curled in tubes.

32Moored under the trees of Charleville Mall Father Conmee saw a turfbarge, a towhorse with pendent head, a bargeman with a hat of dirty straw seated amidships, smoking and staring at a branch of poplar above him. It was idyllic: and Father Conmee reflected on the providence of the Creator who had made turf to be in bogs whence men might dig it out and bring it to town and hamlet to make fires in the houses of poor people.

33On Newcomen bridge the very reverend John Conmee S. J. of saint Francis Xavier’s church, upper Gardiner street, stepped on to an outward bound tram.

34Off an inward bound tram stepped the reverend Nicholas Dudley C. C. of saint Agatha’s church, north William street, on to Newcomen bridge.

35At Newcomen bridge Father Conmee stepped into an outward bound tram for he disliked to traverse on foot the dingy way past Mud Island.

36Father Conmee sat in a corner of the tramcar, a blue ticket tucked with care in the eye of one plump kid glove, while four shillings, a sixpence and five pennies chuted from his other plump glovepalm into his purse. Passing the ivy church he reflected that the ticket inspector usually made his visit when one had carelessly thrown away the ticket. The solemnity of the occupants of the car seemed to Father Conmee excessive for a journey so short and cheap. Father Conmee liked cheerful decorum.

37It was a peaceful day. The gentleman with the glasses opposite Father Conmee had finished explaining and looked down. His wife, Father Conmee supposed. A tiny yawn opened the mouth of the wife of the gentleman with the glasses. She raised her small gloved fist, yawned ever so gently, tiptapping her small gloved fist on her opening mouth and smiled tinily, sweetly.

38Father Conmee perceived her perfume in the car. He perceived also that the awkward man at the other side of her was sitting on the edge of the seat.

39Father Conmee at the altarrails placed the host with difficulty in the mouth of the awkward old man who had the shaky head.

40At Annesley bridge the tram halted and, when it was about to go, an old woman rose suddenly from her place to alight. The conductor pulled the bellstrap to stay the car for her. She passed out with her basket and a marketnet: and Father Conmee saw the conductor help her and net and basket down: and Father Conmee thought that, as she had nearly passed the end of the penny fare, she was one of those good souls who had always to be told twice bless you, my child, that they have been absolved, pray for me. But they had so many worries in life, so many cares, poor creatures.

41From the hoardings Mr Eugene Stratton grimaced with thick niggerlips at Father Conmee.

42Father Conmee thought of the souls of black and brown and yellow men and of his sermon on saint Peter Claver S. J. and the African mission and of the propagation of the faith and of the millions of black and brown and yellow souls that had not received the baptism of water when their last hour came like a thief in the night. That book by the Belgian jesuit, Le Nombre des Élus, seemed to Father Conmee a reasonable plea. Those were millions of human souls created by God in His Own likeness to whom the faith had not (D.V.) been brought. But they were God’s souls, created by God. It seemed to Father Conmee a pity that they should all be lost, a waste, if one might say.

43At the Howth road stop Father Conmee alighted, was saluted by the conductor and saluted in his turn.

44The Malahide road was quiet. It pleased Father Conmee, road and name. The joybells were ringing in gay Malahide. Lord Talbot de Malahide, immediate hereditary lord admiral of Malahide and the seas adjoining. Then came the call to arms and she was maid, wife and widow in one day. Those were old worldish days, loyal times in joyous townlands, old times in the barony.

45Father Conmee, walking, thought of his little book Old Times in the Barony and of the book that might be written about jesuit houses and of Mary Rochfort, daughter of lord Molesworth, first countess of Belvedere.

46A listless lady, no more young, walked alone the shore of lough Ennel, Mary, first countess of Belvedere, listlessly walking in the evening, not startled when an otter plunged. Who could know the truth? Not the jealous lord Belvedere and not her confessor if she had not committed adultery fully, eiaculatio seminis inter vas naturale mulieris, with her husband’s brother? She would half confess if she had not all sinned as women did. Only God knew and she and he, her husband’s brother.

47Father Conmee thought of that tyrannous incontinence, needed however for man’s race on earth, and of the ways of God which were not our ways.

48Don John Conmee walked and moved in times of yore. He was humane and honoured there. He bore in mind secrets confessed and he smiled at smiling noble faces in a beeswaxed drawingroom, ceiled with full fruit clusters. And the hands of a bride and of a bridegroom, noble to noble, were impalmed by Don John Conmee.

49It was a charming day.

50The lychgate of a field showed Father Conmee breadths of cabbages, curtseying to him with ample underleaves. The sky showed him a flock of small white clouds going slowly down the wind. Moutonner, the French said. A just and homely word.

51Father Conmee, reading his office, watched a flock of muttoning clouds over Rathcoffey. His thinsocked ankles were tickled by the stubble of Clongowes field. He walked there, reading in the evening, and heard the cries of the boys’ lines at their play, young cries in the quiet evening. He was their rector: his reign was mild.

52Father Conmee drew off his gloves and took his rededged breviary out. An ivory bookmark told him the page.

53Nones. He should have read that before lunch. But lady Maxwell had come.

54Father Conmee read in secret Pater and Ave and crossed his breast. Deus in adiutorium.

55He walked calmly and read mutely the nones, walking and reading till he came to Res in Beati immaculati: Principium verborum tuorum veritas: in eternum omnia iudicia iustitiæ tuæ.

56A flushed young man came from a gap of a hedge and after him came a young woman with wild nodding daisies in her hand. The young man raised his cap abruptly: the young woman abruptly bent and with slow care detached from her light skirt a clinging twig.

57Father Conmee blessed both gravely and turned a thin page of his breviary. Sin: Principes persecuti sunt me gratis: et a verbis tuis formidavit cor meum.

58* * *

59Corny Kelleher closed his long daybook and glanced with his drooping eye at a pine coffinlid sentried in a corner. He pulled himself erect, went to it and, spinning it on its axle, viewed its shape and brass furnishings. Chewing his blade of hay he laid the coffinlid by and came to the doorway. There he tilted his hatbrim to give shade to his eyes and leaned against the doorcase, looking idly out.

60Father John Conmee stepped into the Dollymount tram on Newcomen bridge.

61Corny Kelleher locked his largefooted boots and gazed, his hat downtilted, chewing his blade of hay.

62Constable 57C, on his beat, stood to pass the time of day.

63—That’s a fine day, Mr Kelleher.

64—Ay, Corny Kelleher said.

65—It’s very close, the constable said.

66Corny Kelleher sped a silent jet of hayjuice arching from his mouth while a generous white arm from a window in Eccles street flung forth a coin.

67—What’s the best news? he asked.

68—I seen that particular party last evening, the constable said with bated breath.

69* * *

70A onelegged sailor crutched himself round MacConnell’s corner, skirting Rabaiotti’s icecream car, and jerked himself up Eccles street. Towards Larry O’Rourke, in shirtsleeves in his doorway, he growled unamiably:

71—For England...

72He swung himself violently forward past Katey and Boody Dedalus, halted and growled:

73—home and beauty.

74J. J. O’Molloy’s white careworn face was told that Mr Lambert was in the warehouse with a visitor.

75A stout lady stopped, took a copper coin from her purse and dropped it into the cap held out to her. The sailor grumbled thanks, glanced sourly at the unheeding windows, sank his head and swung himself forward four strides.

76He halted and growled angrily:

77—For England...

78Two barefoot urchins, sucking long liquorice laces, halted near him, gaping at his stump with their yellowslobbered mouths.

79He swung himself forward in vigorous jerks, halted, lifted his head towards a window and bayed deeply:

80—home and beauty.

81The gay sweet chirping whistling within went on a bar or two, ceased. The blind of the window was drawn aside. A card Unfurnished Apartments slipped from the sash and fell. A plump bare generous arm shone, was seen, held forth from a white petticoatbodice and taut shiftstraps. A woman’s hand flung forth a coin over the area railings. It fell on the path.

82One of the urchins ran to it, picked it up and dropped it into the minstrel’s cap, saying:

83—There, sir.

84* * *

85Katey and Boody Dedalus shoved in the door of the closesteaming kitchen.

86—Did you put in the books? Boody asked.

87Maggy at the range rammed down a greyish mass beneath bubbling suds twice with her potstick and wiped her brow.

88—They wouldn’t give anything on them, she said.

89Father Conmee walked through Clongowes fields, his thinsocked ankles tickled by stubble.

90—Where did you try? Boody asked.

91—M’Guinness’s.

92Boody stamped her foot and threw her satchel on the table.

93—Bad cess to her big face! she cried.

94Katey went to the range and peered with squinting eyes.

95—What’s in the pot? she asked.

96—Shirts, Maggy said.

97Boody cried angrily:

98—Crickey, is there nothing for us to eat?

99Katey, lifting the kettlelid in a pad of her stained skirt, asked:

100—And what’s in this?

101A heavy fume gushed in answer.

102—Peasoup, Maggy said.

103—Where did you get it? Katey asked.

104—Sister Mary Patrick, Maggy said.

105The lacquey rang his bell.

106—Barang!

107Boody sat down at the table and said hungrily:

108—Give us it here.

109Maggy poured yellow thick soup from the kettle into a bowl. Katey, sitting opposite Boody, said quietly, as her fingertip lifted to her mouth random crumbs:

110—A good job we have that much. Where’s Dilly?

111—Gone to meet father, Maggy said.

112Boody, breaking big chunks of bread into the yellow soup, added:

113—Our father who art not in heaven.

114Maggy, pouring yellow soup in Katey’s bowl, exclaimed:

115—Boody! For shame!

116A skiff, a crumpled throwaway, Elijah is coming, rode lightly down the Liffey, under Loopline bridge, shooting the rapids where water chafed around the bridgepiers, sailing eastward past hulls and anchorchains, between the Customhouse old dock and George’s quay.

117* * *

118The blond girl in Thornton’s bedded the wicker basket with rustling fibre. Blazes Boylan handed her the bottle swathed in pink tissue paper and a small jar.

119—Put these in first, will you? he said.

120—Yes, sir, the blond girl said. And the fruit on top.

121—That’ll do, game ball, Blazes Boylan said.

122She bestowed fat pears neatly, head by tail, and among them ripe shamefaced peaches.

123Blazes Boylan walked here and there in new tan shoes about the fruitsmelling shop, lifting fruits, young juicy crinkled and plump red tomatoes, sniffing smells.

124H. E. L. Y. ’S filed before him, tallwhitehatted, past Tangier lane, plodding towards their goal.

125He turned suddenly from a chip of strawberries, drew a gold watch from his fob and held it at its chain’s length.

126—Can you send them by tram? Now?

127A darkbacked figure under Merchants’ arch scanned books on the hawker’s cart.

128—Certainly, sir. Is it in the city?

129—O, yes, Blazes Boylan said. Ten minutes.

130The blond girl handed him a docket and pencil.

131—Will you write the address, sir?

132Blazes Boylan at the counter wrote and pushed the docket to her.

133—Send it at once, will you? he said. It’s for an invalid.

134—Yes, sir. I will, sir.

135Blazes Boylan rattled merry money in his trousers’ pocket.

136—What’s the damage? he asked.

137The blond girl’s slim fingers reckoned the fruits.

138Blazes Boylan looked into the cut of her blouse. A young pullet. He took a red carnation from the tall stemglass.

139—This for me? he asked gallantly.

140The blond girl glanced sideways at him, got up regardless, with his tie a bit crooked, blushing.

141—Yes, sir, she said.

142Bending archly she reckoned again fat pears and blushing peaches.

143Blazes Boylan looked in her blouse with more favour, the stalk of the red flower between his smiling teeth.

144—May I say a word to your telephone, missy? he asked roguishly.

145* * *

146—Ma! Almidano Artifoni said.

147He gazed over Stephen’s shoulder at Goldsmith’s knobby poll.

148Two carfuls of tourists passed slowly, their women sitting fore, gripping the handrests. Palefaces. Men’s arms frankly round their stunted forms. They looked from Trinity to the blind columned porch of the bank of Ireland where pigeons roocoocooed.

149—Anch’io ho avuto di queste idee, Almidano Artifoni said, quand’ ero giovine come Lei. Eppoi mi sono convinto che il mondo è una bestia. È peccato. Perchè la sua voce... sarebbe un cespite di rendita, via. Invece, Lei si sacrifica.

150—Sacrifizio incruento, Stephen said smiling, swaying his ashplant in slow swingswong from its midpoint, lightly.

151—Speriamo, the round mustachioed face said pleasantly. Ma, dia retta a me. Ci rifletta.

152By the stern stone hand of Grattan, bidding halt, an Inchicore tram unloaded straggling Highland soldiers of a band.

153—Ci rifletterò, Stephen said, glancing down the solid trouserleg.

154—Ma, sul serio, eh? Almidano Artifoni said.

155His heavy hand took Stephen’s firmly. Human eyes. They gazed curiously an instant and turned quickly towards a Dalkey tram.

156—Eccolo, Almidano Artifoni said in friendly haste. Venga a trovarmi e ci pensi. Addio, caro.

157—Arrivederla, maestro, Stephen said, raising his hat when his hand was freed. E grazie.

158—Di che? Almidano Artifoni said. Scusi, eh? Tante belle cose!

159Almidano Artifoni, holding up a baton of rolled music as a signal, trotted on stout trousers after the Dalkey tram. In vain he trotted, signalling in vain among the rout of barekneed gillies smuggling implements of music through Trinity gates.

160* * *

161Miss Dunne hid the Capel street library copy of The Woman in White far back in her drawer and rolled a sheet of gaudy notepaper into her typewriter.

162Too much mystery business in it. Is he in love with that one, Marion? Change it and get another by Mary Cecil Haye.

163The disk shot down the groove, wobbled a while, ceased and ogled them: six.

164Miss Dunne clicked on the keyboard:

165—16 June 1904.

166Five tallwhitehatted sandwichmen between Monypeny’s corner and the slab where Wolfe Tone’s statue was not, eeled themselves turning H. E. L. Y. ’S and plodded back as they had come.

167Then she stared at the large poster of Marie Kendall, charming soubrette, and, listlessly lolling, scribbled on the jotter sixteens and capital esses. Mustard hair and dauby cheeks. She’s not nicelooking, is she? The way she’s holding up her bit of a skirt. Wonder will that fellow be at the band tonight. If I could get that dressmaker to make a concertina skirt like Susy Nagle’s. They kick out grand. Shannon and all the boatclub swells never took his eyes off her. Hope to goodness he won’t keep me here till seven.

168The telephone rang rudely by her ear.

169—Hello. Yes, sir. No, sir. Yes, sir. I’ll ring them up after five. Only those two, sir, for Belfast and Liverpool. All right, sir. Then I can go after six if you’re not back. A quarter after. Yes, sir. Twentyseven and six. I’ll tell him. Yes: one, seven, six.

170She scribbled three figures on an envelope.

171—Mr Boylan! Hello! That gentleman from Sport was in looking for you. Mr Lenehan, yes. He said he’ll be in the Ormond at four. No, sir. Yes, sir. I’ll ring them up after five.

172* * *

173Two pink faces turned in the flare of the tiny torch.

174—Who’s that? Ned Lambert asked. Is that Crotty?

175—Ringabella and Crosshaven, a voice replied groping for foothold.

176—Hello, Jack, is that yourself? Ned Lambert said, raising in salute his pliant lath among the flickering arches. Come on. Mind your steps there.

177The vesta in the clergyman’s uplifted hand consumed itself in a long soft flame and was let fall. At their feet its red speck died: and mouldy air closed round them.

178—How interesting! a refined accent said in the gloom.

179—Yes, sir, Ned Lambert said heartily. We are standing in the historic council chamber of saint Mary’s abbey where silken Thomas proclaimed himself a rebel in 1534. This is the most historic spot in all Dublin. O’Madden Burke is going to write something about it one of these days. The old bank of Ireland was over the way till the time of the union and the original jews’ temple was here too before they built their synagogue over in Adelaide road. You were never here before, Jack, were you?

180—No, Ned.

181—He rode down through Dame walk, the refined accent said, if my memory serves me. The mansion of the Kildares was in Thomas court.

182—That’s right, Ned Lambert said. That’s quite right, sir.

183—If you will be so kind then, the clergyman said, the next time to allow me perhaps...

184—Certainly, Ned Lambert said. Bring the camera whenever you like. I’ll get those bags cleared away from the windows. You can take it from here or from here.

185In the still faint light he moved about, tapping with his lath the piled seedbags and points of vantage on the floor.

186From a long face a beard and gaze hung on a chessboard.

187—I’m deeply obliged, Mr Lambert, the clergyman said. I won’t trespass on your valuable time...

188—You’re welcome, sir, Ned Lambert said. Drop in whenever you like. Next week, say. Can you see?

189—Yes, yes. Good afternoon, Mr Lambert. Very pleased to have met you.

190—Pleasure is mine, sir, Ned Lambert answered.

191He followed his guest to the outlet and then whirled his lath away among the pillars. With J. J. O’Molloy he came forth slowly into Mary’s abbey where draymen were loading floats with sacks of carob and palmnut meal, O’Connor, Wexford.

192He stood to read the card in his hand.

193—The reverend Hugh C. Love, Rathcoffey. Present address: Saint Michael’s, Sallins. Nice young chap he is. He’s writing a book about the Fitzgeralds he told me. He’s well up in history, faith.

194The young woman with slow care detached from her light skirt a clinging twig.

195—I thought you were at a new gunpowder plot, J. J. O’Molloy said.

196Ned Lambert cracked his fingers in the air.

197—God! he cried. I forgot to tell him that one about the earl of Kildare after he set fire to Cashel cathedral. You know that one? I’m bloody sorry I did it, says he, but I declare to God I thought the archbishop was inside. He mightn’t like it, though. What? God, I’ll tell him anyhow. That was the great earl, the Fitzgerald Mor. Hot members they were all of them, the Geraldines.

198The horses he passed started nervously under their slack harness. He slapped a piebald haunch quivering near him and cried:

199—Woa, sonny!

200He turned to J. J. O’Molloy and asked:

201—Well, Jack. What is it? What’s the trouble? Wait awhile. Hold hard.

202With gaping mouth and head far back he stood still and, after an instant, sneezed loudly.

203—Chow! he said. Blast you!

204—The dust from those sacks, J. J. O’Molloy said politely.

205—No, Ned Lambert gasped, I caught a... cold night before... blast your soul... night before last... and there was a hell of a lot of draught...

206He held his handkerchief ready for the coming...

207—I was... Glasnevin this morning... poor little... what do you call him... Chow! ... Mother of Moses!

208* * *

209Tom Rochford took the top disk from the pile he clasped against his claret waistcoat.

210—See? he said. Say it’s turn six. In here, see. Turn Now On.

211He slid it into the left slot for them. It shot down the groove, wobbled a while, ceased, ogling them: six.

212Lawyers of the past, haughty, pleading, beheld pass from the consolidated taxing office to Nisi Prius court Richie Goulding carrying the costbag of Goulding, Collis and Ward and heard rustling from the admiralty division of king’s bench to the court of appeal an elderly female with false teeth smiling incredulously and a black silk skirt of great amplitude.

213—See? he said. See now the last one I put in is over here: Turns Over. The impact. Leverage, see?

214He showed them the rising column of disks on the right.

215—Smart idea, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling. So a fellow coming in late can see what turn is on and what turns are over.

216—See? Tom Rochford said.

217He slid in a disk for himself: and watched it shoot, wobble, ogle, stop: four. Turn Now On.

218—I’ll see him now in the Ormond, Lenehan said, and sound him. One good turn deserves another.

219—Do, Tom Rochford said. Tell him I’m Boylan with impatience.

220—Goodnight, M’Coy said abruptly. When you two begin...

221Nosey Flynn stooped towards the lever, snuffling at it.

222—But how does it work here, Tommy? he asked.

223—Tooraloo, Lenehan said. See you later.

224He followed M’Coy out across the tiny square of Crampton court.

225—He’s a hero, he said simply.

226—I know, M’Coy said. The drain, you mean.

227—Drain? Lenehan said. It was down a manhole.

228They passed Dan Lowry’s musichall where Marie Kendall, charming soubrette, smiled on them from a poster a dauby smile.

229Going down the path of Sycamore street beside the Empire musichall Lenehan showed M’Coy how the whole thing was. One of those manholes like a bloody gaspipe and there was the poor devil stuck down in it, half choked with sewer gas. Down went Tom Rochford anyhow, booky’s vest and all, with the rope round him. And be damned but he got the rope round the poor devil and the two were hauled up.

230—The act of a hero, he said.

231At the Dolphin they halted to allow the ambulance car to gallop past them for Jervis street.

232—This way, he said, walking to the right. I want to pop into Lynam’s to see Sceptre’s starting price. What’s the time by your gold watch and chain?

233M’Coy peered into Marcus Tertius Moses’ sombre office, then at O’Neill’s clock.

234—After three, he said. Who’s riding her?

235—O. Madden, Lenehan said. And a game filly she is.

236While he waited in Temple bar M’Coy dodged a banana peel with gentle pushes of his toe from the path to the gutter. Fellow might damn easy get a nasty fall there coming along tight in the dark.

237The gates of the drive opened wide to give egress to the viceregal cavalcade.

238—Even money, Lenehan said returning. I knocked against Bantam Lyons in there going to back a bloody horse someone gave him that hasn’t an earthly. Through here.

239They went up the steps and under Merchants’ arch. A darkbacked figure scanned books on the hawker’s cart.

240—There he is, Lenehan said.

241—Wonder what he’s buying, M’Coy said, glancing behind.

242—Leopoldo or the Bloom is on the Rye, Lenehan said.

243—He’s dead nuts on sales, M’Coy said. I was with him one day and he bought a book from an old one in Liffey street for two bob. There were fine plates in it worth double the money, the stars and the moon and comets with long tails. Astronomy it was about.

244Lenehan laughed.

245—I’ll tell you a damn good one about comets’ tails, he said. Come over in the sun.

246They crossed to the metal bridge and went along Wellington quay by the riverwall.

247Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam came out of Mangan’s, late Fehrenbach’s, carrying a pound and a half of porksteaks.

248—There was a long spread out at Glencree reformatory, Lenehan said eagerly. The annual dinner, you know. Boiled shirt affair. The lord mayor was there, Val Dillon it was, and sir Charles Cameron and Dan Dawson spoke and there was music. Bartell d’Arcy sang and Benjamin Dollard...

249—I know, M’Coy broke in. My missus sang there once.

250—Did she? Lenehan said.

251A card Unfurnished Apartments reappeared on the windowsash of number 7 Eccles street.

252He checked his tale a moment but broke out in a wheezy laugh.

253—But wait till I tell you, he said. Delahunt of Camden street had the catering and yours truly was chief bottlewasher. Bloom and the wife were there. Lashings of stuff we put up: port wine and sherry and curacoa to which we did ample justice. Fast and furious it was. After liquids came solids. Cold joints galore and mince pies...

254—I know, M’Coy said. The year the missus was there...

255Lenehan linked his arm warmly.

256—But wait till I tell you, he said. We had a midnight lunch too after all the jollification and when we sallied forth it was blue o’clock the morning after the night before. Coming home it was a gorgeous winter’s night on the Featherbed Mountain. Bloom and Chris Callinan were on one side of the car and I was with the wife on the other. We started singing glees and duets: Lo, the early beam of morning. She was well primed with a good load of Delahunt’s port under her bellyband. Every jolt the bloody car gave I had her bumping up against me. Hell’s delights! She has a fine pair, God bless her. Like that.

257He held his caved hands a cubit from him, frowning:

258—I was tucking the rug under her and settling her boa all the time. Know what I mean?

259His hands moulded ample curves of air. He shut his eyes tight in delight, his body shrinking, and blew a sweet chirp from his lips.

260—The lad stood to attention anyhow, he said with a sigh. She’s a gamey mare and no mistake. Bloom was pointing out all the stars and the comets in the heavens to Chris Callinan and the jarvey: the great bear and Hercules and the dragon, and the whole jingbang lot. But, by God, I was lost, so to speak, in the milky way. He knows them all, faith. At last she spotted a weeny weeshy one miles away. And what star is that, Poldy? says she. By God, she had Bloom cornered. That one, is it? says Chris Callinan, sure that’s only what you might call a pinprick. By God, he wasn’t far wide of the mark.

261Lenehan stopped and leaned on the riverwall, panting with soft laughter.

262—I’m weak, he gasped.

263M’Coy’s white face smiled about it at instants and grew grave. Lenehan walked on again. He lifted his yachtingcap and scratched his hindhead rapidly. He glanced sideways in the sunlight at M’Coy.

264—He’s a cultured allroundman, Bloom is, he said seriously. He’s not one of your common or garden... you know... There’s a touch of the artist about old Bloom.

265* * *

266Mr Bloom turned over idly pages of The Awful Disclosures of Maria Monk, then of Aristotle’s Masterpiece. Crooked botched print. Plates: infants cuddled in a ball in bloodred wombs like livers of slaughtered cows. Lots of them like that at this moment all over the world. All butting with their skulls to get out of it. Child born every minute somewhere. Mrs Purefoy.

267He laid both books aside and glanced at the third: Tales of the Ghetto by Leopold von Sacher Masoch.

268—That I had, he said, pushing it by.

269The shopman let two volumes fall on the counter.

270—Them are two good ones, he said.

271Onions of his breath came across the counter out of his ruined mouth. He bent to make a bundle of the other books, hugged them against his unbuttoned waistcoat and bore them off behind the dingy curtain.

272On O’Connell bridge many persons observed the grave deportment and gay apparel of Mr Denis J Maginni, professor of dancing &c.

273Mr Bloom, alone, looked at the titles. Fair Tyrants by James Lovebirch. Know the kind that is. Had it? Yes.

274He opened it. Thought so.

275A woman’s voice behind the dingy curtain. Listen: the man.

276No: she wouldn’t like that much. Got her it once.

277He read the other title: Sweets of Sin. More in her line. Let us see.

278He read where his finger opened.

279—All the dollarbills her husband gave her were spent in the stores on wondrous gowns and costliest frillies. For him! For Raoul!

280Yes. This. Here. Try.

281—Her mouth glued on his in a luscious voluptuous kiss while his hands felt for the opulent curves inside her déshabillé.

282Yes. Take this. The end.

283—You are late, he spoke hoarsely, eying her with a suspicious glare.

284The beautiful woman threw off her sabletrimmed wrap, displaying her queenly shoulders and heaving embonpoint. An imperceptible smile played round her perfect lips as she turned to him calmly.

285Mr Bloom read again: The beautiful woman.

286Warmth showered gently over him, cowing his flesh. Flesh yielded amply amid rumpled clothes: whites of eyes swooning up. His nostrils arched themselves for prey. Melting breast ointments (for him! For Raoul!). Armpits’ oniony sweat. Fishgluey slime (her heaving embonpoint!). Feel! Press! Crished! Sulphur dung of lions!

287Young! Young!

288An elderly female, no more young, left the building of the courts of chancery, king’s bench, exchequer and common pleas, having heard in the lord chancellor’s court the case in lunacy of Potterton, in the admiralty division the summons, exparte motion, of the owners of the Lady Cairns versus the owners of the barque Mona, in the court of appeal reservation of judgment in the case of Harvey versus the Ocean Accident and Guarantee Corporation.

289Phlegmy coughs shook the air of the bookshop, bulging out the dingy curtains. The shopman’s uncombed grey head came out and his unshaven reddened face, coughing. He raked his throat rudely, puked phlegm on the floor. He put his boot on what he had spat, wiping his sole along it, and bent, showing a rawskinned crown, scantily haired.

290Mr Bloom beheld it.

291Mastering his troubled breath, he said:

292—I’ll take this one.

293The shopman lifted eyes bleared with old rheum.

294—Sweets of Sin, he said, tapping on it. That’s a good one.

295* * *

296The lacquey by the door of Dillon’s auctionrooms shook his handbell twice again and viewed himself in the chalked mirror of the cabinet.

297Dilly Dedalus, loitering by the curbstone, heard the beats of the bell, the cries of the auctioneer within. Four and nine. Those lovely curtains. Five shillings. Cosy curtains. Selling new at two guineas. Any advance on five shillings? Going for five shillings.

298The lacquey lifted his handbell and shook it:

299—Barang!

300Bang of the lastlap bell spurred the halfmile wheelmen to their sprint. J. A. Jackson, W. E. Wylie, A. Munro and H. T. Gahan, their stretched necks wagging, negotiated the curve by the College library.

301Mr Dedalus, tugging a long moustache, came round from Williams’s row. He halted near his daughter.

302—It’s time for you, she said.

303—Stand up straight for the love of the lord Jesus, Mr Dedalus said. Are you trying to imitate your uncle John, the cornetplayer, head upon shoulder? Melancholy God!

304Dilly shrugged her shoulders. Mr Dedalus placed his hands on them and held them back.

305—Stand up straight, girl, he said. You’ll get curvature of the spine. Do you know what you look like?

306He let his head sink suddenly down and forward, hunching his shoulders and dropping his underjaw.

307—Give it up, father, Dilly said. All the people are looking at you.

308Mr Dedalus drew himself upright and tugged again at his moustache.

309—Did you get any money? Dilly asked.

310—Where would I get money? Mr Dedalus said. There is no-one in Dublin would lend me fourpence.

311—You got some, Dilly said, looking in his eyes.

312—How do you know that? Mr Dedalus asked, his tongue in his cheek.

313Mr Kernan, pleased with the order he had booked, walked boldly along James’s street.

314—I know you did, Dilly answered. Were you in the Scotch house now?

315—I was not, then, Mr Dedalus said, smiling. Was it the little nuns taught you to be so saucy? Here.

316He handed her a shilling.

317—See if you can do anything with that, he said.

318—I suppose you got five, Dilly said. Give me more than that.

319—Wait awhile, Mr Dedalus said threateningly. You’re like the rest of them, are you? An insolent pack of little bitches since your poor mother died. But wait awhile. You’ll all get a short shrift and a long day from me. Low blackguardism! I’m going to get rid of you. Wouldn’t care if I was stretched out stiff. He’s dead. The man upstairs is dead.

320He left her and walked on. Dilly followed quickly and pulled his coat.

321—Well, what is it? he said, stopping.

322The lacquey rang his bell behind their backs.

323—Barang!

324—Curse your bloody blatant soul, Mr Dedalus cried, turning on him.

325The lacquey, aware of comment, shook the lolling clapper of his bell but feebly:

326—Bang!

327Mr Dedalus stared at him.

328—Watch him, he said. It’s instructive. I wonder will he allow us to talk.