g from his knees</i>.) No. Gone off. He'll come to all right.
     BLOOM (<i>Glances sharply at the man</i>.) Leave him to me. I can easily...
     SECOND WATCH Who are you? Do you know him?
     PRIVATE CARR (<i>Lurches towards the watch</i>.) He insulted my lady friend.
     BLOOM (<i>Angrily</i>.)  You hit  him  without  provocation.  I'm  a  witness.
Constable, take his regimental number.
     SECOND  WATCH I  don't  want your  instructions in the discharge of  my
duty.  PRIVATE  COMPTON (<i>Pulling his  comrade</i>.) Here, bugger  off, Harry. Or
Bennett'll have you in the lockup.
     PRIVATE CARR (<i>Staggering as he is  pulled away</i>.) God fuck  old Bennett!
He's a whitearsed bugger. I don't give a shit for him.
     FIRST WATCH (<i>Taking out his notebook</i>.) What's his name?
     BLOOM (<i>Peering over the crowd</i>.) I just see a  car there. If you give me
a hand a second, sergeant.
     FIRST WATCH Name and address.
     (<i>Corny  Kelleher weepers  round his  hat,  a death  wreath in his hand,
appears among the bystanders</i>.)
     BLOOM (<i>Quickly</i>.) O, the very man!  (<i>He whispers</i>.) Simon Dedalus' son. A
bit sprung. Get those policemen to move those loafers back.
     SECOND WATCH Night, Mr Kelleher.
     CORNY KELLEHER  (<i>To the watch, with  drawling eye</i>.) That's all right. I
know him. Won a bit  on the races.  Gold cup. Throwaway. (<i>He laughs</i>.) Twenty
to one. Do you follow me?
     FIRST WATCH  (<i>Turns to  the crowd</i>.) Here,  what are you  all gaping at?
Move on out of that.
     (<i>The crowd disperses slowly, muttering, down the lane</i>.)
     CORNY KELLEHER Leave  it  to me,  sergeant. That'll be  all right.  (<i>He
laughs, shaking  his head</i>.) We  were often  as bad ourselves,  ay  or worse.
What? Eh, what?
     FIRST WATCH (<i>Laughs</i>.) I suppose so.
     CORNY KELLEHER  (<i>Nudges the second watch</i>.)  Come and wipe your name off
the  slate.  (<i>He  lilts,  wagging  his head</i>.)  With  my  tooraloom tooraloom
tooraloom tooraloom. What, eh, do you follow me?
     SECOND WATCH (<i>Genially</i>.) Ah, sure we were too.
     CORNY KELLEHER (<i>Winking</i>.) Boys will be boys. I've a car round there.
     SECOND WATCH All right, Mr Kelleher. Good night.
     CORNY KELLEHER I'll see to that.
     BLOOM (<i>Shakes  hands  with  both of the watch in turn</i>.) Thank  you very
much  gentlemen,  thank you. (<i>He mumbles confidentially</i>.) We don't  want any
scandal, you understand. Father  is a  well known, highly respected citizen.
Just a little wild oats, you understand.
     FIRST WATCH O, I understand, sir.
     SECOND WATCH That's all right, Sir.
     FIRST WATCH  It  was only in case of corporal injuries I'd have  had to
report it at the station.
     BLOOM (<i>Nods rapidly</i>.) Naturally. Quite right. Only your bounden duty.
     SECOND WATCH It's our duty.
     CORNY KELLEHER Good night, men.
     THE  WATCH (<i>Saluting together</i>.) Night,  gentlemen. (<i>They  move off with
slow heavy tread</i>.)
     BLOOM (<i>Blows</i>.) Providential you came on the scene. You have a car?.
     CORNY KELLEHER (<i>Laughs, pointing  his thumb  over his right shoulder to
the car  brought up  against  the  scaffolding</i>.)  Two  commercials that were
standing fizz in Jammet's. Like princes, faith. One of them lost two quid on
the race. Drowning his grief and were on for a go with the jolly girls. So I
landed them up on Behan's car and down to nighttown.
     BLOOM I was just going home by Gardiner street when I happened to...
     CORNY KELLEHER (<i>Laughs</i>.) Sure they wanted me to  join in with the mots.
No, by God, says I. Not for old stagers like myself and yourself. (<i>He laughs
again and  leers  with lacklustre  eye</i>.) Thanks be to God we  have it in the
house what, eh, do you follow me? Hah! hah! hah!
     BLOOM (<i>Tries to  laugh</i>.)  He,  he,  he! Yes. Matter of fact  I was just
visiting an old friend of mine there, Virag, you don't know him (poor fellow
he's laid up for the past week) and we  had a liquor together and I was just
making my way home...
     (<i>The horse neighs</i>.)
     THE HORSE Hohohohohohoh! Hohohohome!
     CORNY KELLEHER Sure it was Behan, our jarvey  there, that told me after
we left the two commercials in Mrs Cohen's and I told him to pull up and got
off to see. (<i>He laughs</i>.) Sober hearsedrivers a specialty.  Will I give him a
lift home? Where does he hang out? Somewhere in Cabra, what?
     BLOOM No, in Sandycove, I believe, from what he let drop.
     (<i>Stephen, prone, breathes  to the stars. Corny Kelleher asquint, drawls
at the horse. Bloom in gloom, looms down</i>.)
     CORNY KELLEHER  (<i>Scratches  his nape</i>.) Sandycove! (<i>He  bends  down  and
calls  to Stephen</i>.)  Eh! (<i>He calls again</i>.)  Eh! He's  covered with  shavings
anyhow. Take care they didn't lift anything off him.
     BLOOM No, no, no. I have his money and his hat here and stick.
     CORNY  KELLEHER Ah well, he'll get over it. No bones broken. Well, I'll
shove  along. (<i>He  laughs</i>.) I've  a rendezvous in  the morning. Burying  the
dead. Safe home!
     THE HORSE (<i>Neighs</i>.) Hohohohohome.
     BLOOM Good night. I'll just wait and take him along in a few...
     (<i>Corny Kelleher  returns  to the outside car  and mounts it. The  horse
harness jingles</i>.)
     CORNY KELLEHER (<i>From the car, standing</i>.) Night.
     BLOOM Night.
     (<i>The jarvey chucks the reins and raises his whip encouragingly. The car
and horse  back slowly, awkwardly and  turn. Corny Kelleher on the  sideseat
sways his  head  to and  fro in  sign of mirth at Blooms plight. The  jarvey
joins  in the mute pantomimic merriment nodding from the farther seat. Bloom
shakes his head  in  mute mirthful reply. With thumb and palm Corny Kelleher
reassures that  the two bobbies will allow  the sleep  to continue for  what
else  is  to be done. With a slow nod Bloom conveys his gratitude as that is
exactly what  Stephen needs. The car jingles  tooraloom round  the corner of
the tooraloom lane. Corny Kelleher  again reassuralooms with his hand. Bloom
with his hand  assuralooms  Corny Kelleher  that he is  reassuraloomtay. The
tinkling   hoofs    and   jingling   harness   grow   fainter   with   their
tooralooloolooloo lay. Bloom,  holding in his  hand  Stephens  hat festooned
with shavings and ashplant, stands  irresolute.  Then  he  bends  to him and
shakes him by the shoulder</i>.)
     BLOOM Eh! Ho!  (<i>There is no answer he bends again</i>.)  Mr Dedalus! (<i>There
is no  answer</i>.) The name  if  you call. Somnambulist. (<i>He  bends again  and,
hesitating, brings his mouth near the  face of the prostrate form</i>.) Stephen!
(<i>There is no answer. He calls again</i>.) Stephen!
     STEPHEN  (<i>Groans</i>.) Who? Black panther vampire. (<i>He sighs and  stretches
himself then murmurs thickly with prolonged vowels.)</i> Who... drive...  Fergus
now. And pierce... wood's woven shade?...
     (<i>He turns on his left side, sighing, doubling himself together</i>.)
     BLOOM  Poetry. Well  educated.  Pity. (<i>He bends  again  and  undoes the
buttons of Stephen's  waistcoat</i>.) To breathe. (<i>He  brushes the wood shavings
from  Stephen's clothes  with light hands and fingers</i>.) One pound seven. Not
hurt anyhow. (<i>He listens</i>.) What!
     (<i>Murmurs</i>.)
     ... shadows... the woods
     ... white breast... dim...
     (<i>He stretches out his arms,  sighs  again  and  curls  his body.  Bloom
holding  his hat and ashplant stands  erect. A  dog  barks  in the distance.
Bloom  tightens  and loosens his  grip  on  the ashplant.  He looks down  on
Stephen's face and form</i>.)
     BLOOM (<i>Communes with the night</i>.) Face reminds me of his poor mother. In
the shady wood. The deep white breast. Ferguson, I think  I caught.  A girl.
Some girl. Best thing could happen him... (<i>He murmurs</i>.)... swear that I will
always hail, ever conceal, never reveal, any part or  parts,  art or arts...
(<i>He  murmurs</i>.) in the rough sands of  the sea. a cabletow's length  from the
shore... where the tide ebbs ... and flows...
     (<i>Silent, thoughtful, alert, he stands on guard, his fingers at his lips
in the attitude  of secret master.  Against  the dark  wall a figure appears
slowly, a fairy boy of eleven, a changeling,  kidnapped,  dressed in an Eton
suit with  glass shoes and  a little  bronze helmet, holding a  book  in his
hand. He reads from right to left inaudibly, smiling, kissing the page</i>.)
     BLOOM (<i>Wonderstruck, calls inaudibly</i>.) Rudy!
     RUDY (Gazes  unseeing into Bloom's eyes and goes  on  reading, kissing,
smiling. He  has a  delicate mauveface. On his  suit he has diamond and ruby
buttons. In  his free left hand he holds  a slim  ivory  cane with  a violet
howknot. A white lambkin peeps out of his waistcoat pocket.)


        Ulysses 16: Eumaeus

     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 pumps 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, in spite of his
having forgotten  to take up his rather soapsuddy handkerchief after it  had
done yeoman service in the shaving line, brushing, 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.
     This was a quandary but, bringing  commonsense to bear on it, evidently
there was nothing for it but put a good face on the matter and foot it which
they accordingly did. So, bevelling around by Mullet's and the Signal House,
which they shortly  reached, they  proceeded  perforce in  the direction  of
Amiens   street   railway  terminus,  Mr  Bloom  being  handicapped  by  the
circumstance that one  of the back buttons of his trousers had,  to vary the
timehonoured adage, gone the way of all buttons, though, entering thoroughly
into the spirit of the thing, he heroically made light of the mischance. So,
as neither  of  them were particularly pressed for time, as it happened, and
the temperature  refreshing since it cleared up  after the recent visitation
of Jupiter Pluvius, they dandered along past by  where the empty vehicle was
waiting  without  a  fare  or  a jarvey.  As it so happened  a Dublin United
Tramways  Company's sandstrewer  happening  to  be returning  the  elder man
recounted to his companion <i>î propos</i> of the incident his own truly miraculous
escape of some little while back. They passed the main entrance of the Great
Northern  railway station,  the starting point for Belfast,  where of course
all traffic was suspended  at that late hour, and,  passing the back door of
the morgue  (a not very enticing  locality, not to say gruesome to a degree,
more  especially at  night), ultimately  gained  the Dock Tavern and in  due
course turned into Store street, famous for its C  division  police station.
Between this point and the high, at present unlit, warehouses  of  Beresford
Place  Stephen  thought  to think  of  Ibsen,  associated with Baird's,  the
stonecutter's,  in his mind somehow in  Talbot Place,  first  turning on the
right,  while the other, who  was  acting as his <i>fidus Achates</i>, inhaled with
internal  satisfaction the  smell of James  Rourke's  city  bakery, situated
quite close to where they were, the very palatable odour indeed of our daily
bread, of all commodities of  the public the primary and most indispensable.
Bread, the staff  of life, earn your  bread, O tell me where is fancy bread?
At Rourke's the baker's, it is said.
     <i>En route</i>, to his taciturn, and,  not to put too fine a point on it, not
yet perfectly sober companion, Mr  Bloom, who at all events, was in complete
possession of his  faculties, never  more so,  in  fact  disgustingly sober,
spoke  a word of caution <i>re</i> the dangers  of nighttown, women of ill fame and
swell  mobsmen,  which, barely permissible once in a while, though  not as a
habitual practice,  was  of  the nature  of  a  regular deathtrap  for young
fellows of his age particularly if they had acquired  drinking habits  under
the  influence of liquor  unless  you  knew  a  little  juijitsu  for  every
contingency  as even a fellow on the  broad of his  back could  administer a
nasty kick if you didn't look out. Highly providential was the appearance on
the  scene of  Corny Kelleher  when Stephen was blissfully unconscious that,
but for that man in the gap turning up at the eleventh hour, the finis might
have been that he might  have  been a candidate for the  accident  ward, or,
failing that, the Bridewell and an appearance  in the court  next day before
Mr Tobias,  or, he being the solicitor, rather old Wall, he meant to say, or
Malony  which simply spelt ruin for  a chap when it got  bruited about.  The
reason  he mentioned  the fact was that a lot of  those  policemen, whom  he
cordially disliked, were admittedly unscrupulous in the service of the Crown
and, as  Mr Bloom  put  it, recalling a  case or  two in  the  A Division in
Clanbrassil street, prepared to swear a hole through a ten gallon pot. Never
on the spot when wanted but in quiet parts of the City,  Pembroke  Road, for
example, the guardians of the  law were well in evidence, the obvious reason
being  they were  paid  to  protect  the upper  classes.  Another  thing  he
commented  on  was  equipping  soldiers  with  firearms or sidearms  of  any
description, liable to go off at any  time, which was tantamount to inciting
them against civilians should by any chance they fall nut over anything. You
frittered away your time, he  very sensibly  maintained, and health and also
character  besides  which the squandermania of the thing, fast  women of the
<i>demimonde</i> ran away  with a lot of #. s. d. into the bargain and the greatest
danger of all  was who you  got drunk with though, touching the  much  vexed
question of stimulants, he relished a glass of choice old wine  in season as
both nourishing and  blood-making and possessing aperient virtues (notably a
good  burgundy  which he was a staunch  believer  in) still  never beyond  a
certain point where he invariably drew the line as it simply  led to trouble
all round to  say  nothing of  your being  at  the tender  mercy  of  others
practically. Most of  all he commented adversely on the desertion of Stephen
by all his pubhunting <i>confråres</i> but one, a most glaring  piece of ratting on
the part of his brother medicos under all the circs.
     -- And  that one  was Judas, said  Stephen,  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 when 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 be 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: <i>Night!</i>  Stephen, of course, started rather dizzily
and  stopped to  return  the  compliment. Mr  Bloom, actuated  by motives of
inherent  delicacy, inasmuch  as  he  always  believed in  minding  his  own
business, moved off but  nevertheless  remained on the <i>qui vive</i> with  just a
shade of anxiety though not funkyish in  the least. Although unusual in  the
Dublin area, he knew that it was not  by any means  unknown  for desperadoes
who  had next to  nothing to live  on  to be about  waylaying and  generally
terrorising peaceable pedestrians by placing  a pistol at their head in some
secluded  spot  outside  the city  proper, famished loiterers of the  Thames
embankment category  they might be hanging about  there or  simply marauders
ready to  decamp with whatever  boodle  they  could  in  one fell swoop at a
moments notice, your money or your life, leaving you there to point a moral,
gagged and garotted.
     Stephen,  that is  when the accosting  figure  came to close  quarters,
though he was  not in  any 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,  his  mother  or  aunt  or  some  relative  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  other  uncalled-for
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 ill 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 the  next day, Stephen told him, in  a
boys' school  at Dalkey for a gentleman usher. Mr Garret  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. 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.
     Though  this  sort of  thing went on every other night  or very near it
still  Stephen's  feelings got the better of  him in  a sense though he knew
that  Corley's brandnew  rigmarole, on  a par  with  the  others, was hardly
deserving of much credence. However, <i>haud ignarus malorum miseris succurrere
disco</i>, etcetera, as the Latin poet remarks, especially as luck would have it
he got paid his screw after every middle of the month on the sixteenth which
was the date of  the month as a  matter of  fact  though  a good bit  of the
wherewithal was  demolished. But the cream of the joke was nothing would get
it Out  of Corley's head that he was living in affluence and hadn't a  thing
to  do but  hand  out the  needful - whereas. He put his  hand  in a  pocket
anyhow, not with the idea of finding any food  there,  but thinking he might
lend him  anything up  to a bob or so  in lieu so that he might endeavour at
all  events and get sufficient  to eat. But the result  was in the  negative
for, to  his chagrin, he found his cash missing. A few  broken biscuits were
all the result  of his investigation. He tried his  hardest to recollect for
the moment whether he had lost,  as well he might have,  or left, because in
that  contingency it was not a  pleasant lookout,  very much the reverse, in
fact. He was altogether too fagged out to institute a thorough search though
he  tried to  recollect about biscuits he dimly remembered. Who  now exactly
gave them,  or where was, or did he buy? However, in another pocket he  came
across  what he surmised  in the dark were pennies, erroneously, however, as
it turned out.
     -- Those are halfcrowns, man, Corley corrected him.
     And so in point of fact they turned out  to be. Stephen lent him one of
them.
     -- Thanks, Corley  answered. You're a gentleman. I'll pay you back some
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.
     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.  Probably
he  was one of his hangerson but for  the  matter  of that it  was  merely a
question of one preying on his next door 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 <i>rara avis</i>  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's 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 bucket dredger,  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 and 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?
     -- A gifted man, Mr Bloom said  of Mr Dedalus senior, in more  respects
than one and a born  <i>raconteur</i>  if ever there was one. He takes great pride,
quite legitimately, Out of you. You could  go back,  perhaps,  he  hazarded,
still thinking of the very unpleasant scene at Westland Row terminus when it
was  perfectly evident  that  the other two, Mulligan,  that  is,  and  that
English tourist friend of his, who eventually euchred their third companion,
were patently trying,  as  if  the whole bally station belonged to them,  to
give Stephen the slip in the confusion.
     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 oatmeal water 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 low spirited 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 he 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.
     -- <i>Putana madonna, che ci dia i quattrini! Ho ragione? Culo rotto!</i>
     -- <i>Intendiamoci. Mezzo sovrano pië</i>
     -- <i>Dice lui, pero</i>.
     -- <i>Farabutto! Mortacci sui!</i>
     Mr Bloom and Stephen entered the  cabman's  shelter,  an  unpretentious
wooden structure, where, prior to then, he had rarely, if ever, been before;
the former having previously  whispered to  the latter a few hints anent the
keeper of  it, said  to  be  the once famous Skin-the-Goat,  Fitzharris, the
invincible,  though  he  wouldn't  vouch  for the actual facts,  which quite
possibly there was not one vestige of truth in. A few  moments later saw our
two  noctambules safely seated  in a  discreet corner, only to be greeted by
stares from the decidedly miscellaneous  collection of waifs  and strays and
other nondescript  specimens of  the  genus <i>homo</i>,  already there engaged  in
eating  and drinking, diversified  by  conversation, for whom they seemingly
formed an object of marked curiosity.
     -- 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.
     Accordingly  his first act  was  with characteristic <i>sangfroid</i> to order
these  commodities quietly.  The  <i>hoi  polloi</i> of jarvies  or stevedores,  or
whatever  they  were,  after  a  cursory  examination,  turned  their  eyes,
apparently dissatisfied, away, though one  redbearded bibulous individual, a
portion of whose hair was greyish, a sailor, probably, still stared for some
appreciable time before transferring his rapt attention to the floor.
     Mr  Bloom, availing himself of the right of free speech, he having just
a  bowing acquaintance with  the language  in  dispute  though, to be  sure,
rather in a quandary over <i>voglio</i>, remarked to his <i>protØgØ</i> in an audible tone
of voice, <i>apropos</i> of the battle royal in the street  which  was still raging
fast and furious:
     --  Beautiful  language.  I mean for singing purposes. Why  do you  not
write your  poetry in that  language? <i>Bella Poetria!</i> it is so  melodious and
full. <i>Belladonna voglio</i>.
     Stephen,  who was trying  his dead best to yawn, if he could, suffering
from dead 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.
     The keeper  of the  shelter in the middle  of this  <i>tÙte-î-tÙte</i>  put  a
boiling swimming cup of a choice concoction labelled coffee on the table and
a rather antediluvian  specimen of  a bun,  or so it  seemed, after which he
beat  a  retreat to  his counter. Mr Bloom determining to have a good square
look at  him later  on  so as  not  to  appear  to...  for which  reason  he
encouraged Stephen to  proceed with his  eyes  while he did  the honours  by
surreptitiously pushing  the cup of  what  was temporarily  supposed  to  be
called coffee gradually nearer him.
     -- 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 left hand 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.
     -- Bottle 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 some way 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:
     Buffalo Bill shoots to kill,
     Never missed nor he never will.
     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, W. B. Murphy, of Carrigaloe.
Know where that is?
     -- Queenstown Harbour, Stephen replied.
     -- That's right, the sailor said. Fort Camden and Fort Carlisle. That's
where I  hails from. My little woman's down there.  She's waiting  for me, I
know. <i>For England, home and  beauty</i>. She's  my  own true wife I haven't seen
for seven years now, sailing about.
     Mr Bloom could easily picture his advent on this scene - the homecoming
to the mariner's roadside shieling after having diddled Davy Jones - a rainy
night with  a  blind moon.  Across the world  for a wife.  Quite a number of
stories there were on that particular Alice Ben Bolt  topic, Enoch Arden and
Rip  van  Winkle  and  does anybody  hereabouts  remember  Caoc  O'Leary,  a
favourite  and most trying declamation piece, by the way, of poor John Casey
and a bit  of perfect poetry  in its own small  way? Never about the runaway
wife  coming back,  however much devoted  to  the absentee. The  face at the
window! Judge of his  astonishment when he finally did  breast the tape  and
the  awful truth dawned  upon  him anent his  better  half, wrecked  in  his
affections. You  little expected me but I've come to  stay  and make a fresh
start. There she sits, a grass widow, at the selfsame fireside. Believes  me
dead.  Rocked  in  the  cradle of the deep.  And there  sits uncle  Chubb or
Tomkin, as the case  might be, the  publican of  the Crown  and  Anchor,  in
shirtsleeves,  eating rumpsteak  and onions.  No chair for  father. Boo! The
wind!  Her brandnew arrival is on her  knee,  <i>post mortem</i> child. With a high
ro! and a randy ro! and my galloping tearing tandy O! Bow to the inevitable.
Grin and  bear it. I remain with much love your brokenhearted husband, W. B.
Murphy.
     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, do
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:
     --  We  come  up this morning eleven  o'clock. The threemaster <i>Rosevean</i>
from Bridgwater with bricks. I shipped to get over. Paid off this afternoon.
There's my discharge. See? W. B. Murphy, A. B. S.
     In  confirmation of which statement he extricated from an inside pocket
and handed to his neighbours a not very clean looking folded document.
     -- You must have seen  a fair share of the world, the keeper  remarked,
leaning on the counter.
     --  Why,   the   sailor  answered,   upon  reflection   upon  it,  I've
circumnavigated a bit since I  first joined on. I was in the Red Sea. I  was
in  China  and  North  America and  South  America. I seen  icebergs plenty,
growlers.  I was  in  Stockholm and the Black  Sea,  the Dardanelles,  under
Captain Dalton the best bloody man that ever scuttled a ship. I seen Russia.
<i>Gospodi pomilooy</i>. That's how the Russians prays.
     -- 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 t