 Section 17 of Ulysses. Ulysses by James Joyce. Part 2. The Odyssey. Episode 10. Wandering Rocks. Part 1. The Superior, the very reverend, John Connolly 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? Dignum. Yes. Where a Dignum et Eustum est. Brother Swan was the person to see. Mr. Cunningham's letter. Yes, oblige him, if possible. Good practical Catholic. Useful at mission time. A one-legged 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 toward the very reverend John Connolly S.J. Father Connolly blessed him in the sun for his purse held he knew one silver crown. Father Connolly crossed to Mount Joy Square. He thought but not for long of soldiers and sailors, whose legs had been shot off by cannonballs, ending their days in some popper ward, and of cardinal Woolsey'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 tree shade of sunny-winking leaves, and towards him came the wife of Mr. David Sheehy, MP. Very well indeed, Father, and you, Father. Father Connolly 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 Connolly 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 Vaughn would come again to preach. Oh yes, a very great success. A wonderful man, really. Father Connolly was very glad to see the wife of Mr. David Sheehy, MP, looking so well, and he begged to be remembered to Mr. David Sheehy, MP. Yes, he would certainly call. Good afternoon, Mrs. Sheehy. Father Connolly doffed his silk hat and smiled as he took leave, at the jet beads of her mantilla ink shining in the sun. And smiled yet again, ingoing. He had cleaned his teeth, he knew, with arcannut paste. Father Connolly walked and, walking, smiled, for he thought on Father Bernard Vaughn's droll eyes and cockney voice. Pilot, why don't you owe back that out-and-mob? A 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, one would think it. Welsh were they not? Oh, lest he forget that letter to Father Provincial. Father Connolly stopped three little schoolboys at the corner of Mount Joy Square. Yes, they were from Belvedere, the little house. Aha! And were they good boys at school? Oh, that was very good now. And what was his name? Jack Sohan. And his name? Gerr. Gallaher. And the other little man? His name was Brunney Lyman. Oh, that was a very nice name to have. Father Connolly gave a letter from his breast to Master Brunney Lyman and pointed to the red pillar box at the corner of Fitzgibbon Street. But mind you don't post yourself into the box, little man, he said. The boys six-eyed Father Connolly and laughed. Oh, sir. Well, let me see if you can post a letter, Father Connolly said. Master Brunney Lyman ran across the road and put Father Connolly's letter to Father Provincial into the mouth of the bright red letter box. Father Connolly smiled and nodded and smiled and walked along Mount Joy Square East. Mr. Dennis J. McGinney, professor of dancing, in silk hat, slate frock coat with silk facings, white kerchief tie, tight lavender trousers, canary gloves, and pointed patent boots, walking with grave deportment most respectfully took the curb stone as he passed Lady Maxwell at the corner of Dignam's Court. Was that not Mrs. McGinnis? Mrs. McGinnis, stately, silver-haired, bowed to Father Connolly from the farther footpath along which she sailed. And Father Connolly smiled and saluted. How did she do? A 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 Mayan. Father Connolly walked down Great Charles Street and glanced at the shut-up free church on his left. The Reverend T. R. Green 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. Father Connolly 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. A band of satchel school boys crossed from Richmond Street. All raised untidy caps. Father Connolly greeted them more than once benignly. Christian brother boys. Father Connolly smelt incense on his right hand as he walked. St. Joseph's Church, Portland Row, for aged and virtuous females. Father Connolly raised his hat to the Blessed Sacrament—virtuous, but occasionally they were also bad-tempered. Near Aldeboro House, Father Connolly thought of that spin-thrift nobleman, and now it was an office or something. Father Connolly began to walk along the North Strand Road and was saluted by Mr. William Gallagher, who stood in the doorway of his shop. Father Connolly saluted Mr. William Gallagher and perceived the odors that came from bacon flinches and ample cools of butter. He passed Grogan's the tobacconist, against which news boards 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. Father Connolly went by Daniel Bergen's public house, against the window of which two unlaboring men lounged. They saluted him and were saluted. Father Connolly passed H.J. O'Neill's funeral establishment, where Corny Gallagher totted figures in the day-book while he chewed a blade of hay. A constable on his beat saluted Father Connolly, and Father Connolly saluted the constable. In Yaukstetter's The Pork Butchers, Father Connolly observed pigs' puddings, white and black and red, lying neatly curled in tubes. Moored under the trees of Charleville Mall, Father Connolly saw a turf barge, a tow-horse with pendant-head, a barge-man with a hat of dirty straw, seated amid ships, smoking and staring at a branch of poplar above him. It was idyllic, and Father Connolly 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. On Newcomen Bridge, the very reverend John Connolly S.J. of St. Francis Xavier's Church, Upper Gardiner Street, stepped onto an outward-bound tram. Off an inward-bound tram, stepped the reverend Nicholas Dudley C.C. of St. Agatha's Church, North William Street, onto Newcomen Bridge. At Newcomen Bridge, Father Connolly stepped into an outward-bound tram, for he disliked to traverse on foot the dingy way past Mud Island. Father Connolly sat in a corner of the tram-car, a blue ticket tucked with care in the eye of one plump kid-glove, while four shillings, a sixpence, and five pennies, shooting from his other plump glove-palm 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 Connolly excessive for a journey so short and cheap. Father Connolly liked cheerful decorum. It was a peaceful day. The gentleman with the glasses opposite Father Connolly had finished explaining in look-down. His wife, Father Connolly, 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, tip-tipping her small, gloved fist on her opening mouth, and smiled tinily, sweetly. Father Connolly 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. Father Connolly at the altar-rails placed the host with difficulty in the mouth of the awkward old man who had the shaky head. At endsly bridge the tram halted, and, when it was about to go, an old woman rose suddenly from her place to a light. The conductor pulled the bell-strap to stay the car for her. She passed out with her basket and a market net, and Father Connolly saw the conductor help her and net and basket down, and Father Connolly thought that, as she had nearly passed the end of the penny-fair, 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. From the hoardings Mr. Eugene Stratton grimaced with thick nigger-lips at Father Connolly. Father Connolly thought of the souls of blackened, brown, and yellow men, and of his sermon on St. Peter, Claver, S.J., and the African Mission, and of the propagation of the faith, and of the millions of blackened, brown, and yellow souls that had not yet received the baptism of water when their last hour came like a thief in the night. That book by the Belgian Jesuit, Le Nombre de Elu, seemed to Father Connolly a reasonable plea. Those were millions of human souls created by God in his own likeness to whom the faith had not, DV, been brought. But they were God's souls, created by God. It seemed to Father Connolly a pity that they should all be lost, a waste, if one might say. At the houth road stop Father Connolly alighted, and was saluted by the conductor, and saluted in his turn. The Malahide road was quiet. It pleased Father Connolly, road, and name. The joy-bells were ringing in gay Malahide. Lord Talbot de Malahide, immediate hereditary Lord Admiral of Malahide, in the seas adjoining. Then came the call to arms, and she was made, wife and widow, in one day. Those were old, worldish days, loyal times and joyous townlands, old times in the barony. Father Connolly, 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 Rockford, daughter of Lord Molesworth, First Countess of Belvedere. A listless lady, no more young, walked alone the shore of Luff Ennell, 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, Iaculatio seminis inter vas natural mulleris, 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. Father Connolly thought of that tyrannous incontinence, needed, however, for man's race on earth, and of the ways of God, which were not our ways. Don John Connolly walked and moved in times of yore. He was humane and honored there. He bore in mind secrets confessed, and he smiled at smiling noble faces in a beeswaxed drawing room, sealed with full fruit clusters. In the hands of a bride and of a bridegroom, noble to noble, were impalmed by Don John Connolly. It was a charming day. The lich gate of a field showed Father Connolly breads of cabbages, curtsying to him with ample underleaves. The sky showed him a flock of small, white clouds, going slowly down the wind. Moutonnet, the French said, a just and homely word. Father Connolly, reading his office, watched a flock of muttoning clouds over wrath-coffee. His thin-socked ankles were tickled by the stubble of clongo's 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. Father Connolly drew off his gloves, and took his rededged breviary out, and ivory bookmark told him the page. Nones. He should have read that before lunch, but Lady Maxwell had come. Father Connolly read in secret Pater and Ave and crossed his breasts. Deus in Adiutorium. He walked calmly, and read mutely the Nones, walking and reading till he came to rest in Beati Immaculati, Prinkipium Verborum Tuorum Veritas, in Eternum Omnia Indica Iustitii Tuii. A 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. Father Connolly blessed both gravely and turned a thin page of his breviary. Sin, Prikipes, Prosecuti sunt migratis, et ae verbis tuis formidavit cormeum. Cornikellaher closed his long daybook, and glanced with his drooping eye at a pine coffin lid centred 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 coffin lid by and came to the doorway. There he tilted his hat brim to give shade to his eyes, and leaned against the doorcase, looking idly out. Father John Connolly stepped into the Dollymount Tram on New Common Bridge. Cornikellaher locked his large-footed boots and gazed, his hat down tilted, chewing his blade of hay. Constable 57C on his beat stood to pass the time of day. That's a fine day, Mr. Keleher. I, Cornikellaher said. It's very close, the Constable said. Cornikellaher sped a silent jet of hay-juice, arching from his mouth while a generous white arm from a window in Echo Street flung forth the coin. What's the best news, he asked? I seen that particular party last evening, the Constable said with bated breath. A one-legged sailor crushed himself round McConnell's corner, skirting Rabbiati's ice-cream car, and jerked himself up Echo Street. Towards Larry O'Rourke, in shirt sleeves in his doorway, he growled unamiably. For England! He swung himself violently forward past Katie and Booty Dedalus, halted and growled, home and beauty. J.J. Omeloy's white, care-worn face was told that Mr. Lambert was in the warehouse with a visitor. A 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. He halted and growled angrily. For England! Two barefoot urchins, sucking long, licorous laces, halted near him, gaping at his stump with their yellow-slobbered mouths. He swung himself forward in vigorous jerks, halted, lifted his head towards a window and bathed deeply, home and beauty! The 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 petticoat bodice and taught shift straps. A woman's hand flung forth the coin over the area railings. It fell on the path. One of the urchins ran to it, picked it up, and dropped it into the minstrel's cap, saying, There, sir! Katie and Booty Dedalus shoved in the door of the closed steaming kitchen. Did you put in the books, Booty asked? Maggie at the range jammed down a grayish mass beneath bubbling suds twice with her pot-stick and wiped her brow. They wouldn't give anything on them, she said. Father Conny walked through Clongo's field, his thin-socked ankles tickled by stubble. Where did you try, Booty asked? McGinnises! Booty stamped her foot and threw her satchel on the table. Bad sess to her big face, she cried. Katie went to the range and peered with squinting eyes. What's in the pot, she asked? Shirts, Maggie said. Booty cried angrily. Cracky! Is there nothing for us to eat? Katie, lifting the kettle lid in a pad of her stained skirt, asked, And what's in this? A heavy fume gushed in answer. Peasoup, Maggie said. Where did you get it, Katie asked? Mr. Mary Patrick, Maggie said. The lackey rang his bell. Boring! Booty sat down at the table and said hungrily, Give us it here. Maggie poured yellow thick soup from the kettle into a bowl. Katie, sitting opposite Booty, said quietly, as her fingertip lifted to her mouth random crumbs. A good job we have that much. Where's Dilly? Gone to meet Father, Maggie said. Booty, breaking big chunks of bread into the yellow soup, added, Our Father who art not in heaven. Maggie, pouring yellow soup in Katie's bowl, exclaimed, Booty, for shame! A skiff, a crumpled throw away, Elijah is coming, rode lightly down the Liffey, under loop-line bridge, shooting the rapids where water chafed around the bridge-pears, sailing eastward past hulls and anchor chains, between the Custom House Old Dock and George's Quay. The blonde girl in Thornton's bedded the wicker basket with rustling fiber. Blazes Boylan handed her the bottle swathed in pink tissue paper and a small jar. Put these in first, will you? he said. Yes, sir, the blonde girl said, and the fruit on top. That'll do, game-ball, Blazes Boylan said. She bestowed fat pears neatly, head by tail, and among them ripe, shame-faced peaches. Blazes Boylan walked here and there in new tan shoes about the fruit-smelling shop, lifting fruits, young juicy crinkled and plump red tomatoes, sniffing smells. H.E.L.Y.'s filed before him, tall white-hatted, past tan-year lane, plotting toward their goal. He turned suddenly from a chip of strawberries, drew a gold watch from his fob, and held it at chain's length. Can you send them by tram, now? A dark-backed figure under Merchant's Arch scanned books on the hawker's cart. Certainly, sir, is it in the city? Oh, yes, Blazes Boylan said, ten minutes. The blonde girl handed him a docket and pencil. Will you write the address, sir? Blazes Boylan at the counter wrote and pushed the docket to her. Send it at once, will you, he said. It's for an invalid. Yes, sir, I will, sir. Blazes Boylan rattled merry money in his trousers' pocket. What's the damage, he asked? The blonde girl's slim fingers reckoned the fruits. Blazes Boylan looked into the cut of her blouse. A young pullet, he took a red carnation from the tall stem glass. This for me, he asked gallantly. The blonde girl glanced sideways at him, got up regardless, with his tie a bit crooked, blushing. Yes, sir, she said. Bending archly, she reckoned again fat pears and blushing peaches. Blazes Boylan looked in her blouse with more favor, the stalk of the red flower between his smiling teeth. May I say a word to your telephone, Missy? He asked, roguishly. End of Section 17. Read by Richard Wallace, Liberty, Missouri, September 9, 2010. Section 18 of Ulysses. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Ulysses by James Joyce. Part 2. The Odyssey. Episode 10. Wandering Rocks. Part 2. Ma! Almedano Artifone said. He gazed over Stephen's shoulder at Goldsmith's Knobby Pole. Two car-fulls of tourists passed slowly, their women sitting for, ripping the hand rests, pale faces, men's arms frankly round their stunted forms. They looked from trinity to the blind, columned porch of the Bank of Ireland, where pigeons ruckuckued. Ancio o avuto di castidee, Almedano Artifone said, candero giovini com lei, e poi me sono convintito il mondo e una bestia. E peccato, perce la sua voque, sereba un caspite de rendita via. Invece lei si sacrifica. Sacrafizio incremento, Stephen said, smiling, swaying his ash plant in slow, swing-swong from its midpoint, lightly. Speriamo, the round mustachio had faced said pleasantly, ma tirrete a me, ci refleta. By the stern stone hand of Gritton, bidding halt, an inchicore tram unloaded, straggling highland soldiers of a band. Ci refletero, Stephen said, glancing down the solid trouser leg. Ma sul serio, eh? Almedano Artifone said. His heavy hand took Stephen's firmly, human eyes. They gazed curiously in instant, and turned quickly towards a dalky tram. Eccolo, Almedano Artifone said in a friendly haste. Venga, trovarmi e ci pensi. Adio, ciao. Arrivederla, maestro. Stephen said, raising his hat when his hand was freed. Grazie. Dice, Almedano Artifone said. Scusi, eh? Tante bel coce. Almedano Artifone, holding up a baton of rolled music as a signal, trailed on stout trousers after the dalky tram. In vain he trotted, signaling in vain among the route of bear-kneed ghillies smuggling implements of music through churnity gates. Miss Dunn hid the Cappell Street library copy of the Woman in White far back in her drawer, and rolled a sheet of gaudy note paper into her typewriter. Too much mystery business in it. Is he in love with that one, Marion? Change it and get another by Mary Cecil Hay. The disc shot down the groove, wobbled a while, ceased, and ogled them. Six. Miss Dunn clicked on the keyboard. Sixteen June, 1904. Five tall white-hatted sandwichmen, between money-penny's corner and the slab where wolf's tones statue was not, yielded themselves, turning H-E-L-Y-S, and plotted back as they had come. Then she stared at the large poster of Marie Kendall, charming soubrette, and listlessly lowling, scribble on the jotter sixteen's and capital S's. Mustard hair and dauby cheeks. She's not nice-looking, 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 Susie Nagels. They kick out grand. Shannon and all the boat-club swells never took his eyes off her. Hope to goodness he won't keep me here till seven. The telephone rang rudely by her ear. No? 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. Twenty-seven and six. I'll tell him. Yes. One. Seven. Six. She scribbled three figures on an envelope. Mr. Boylan. Hello. That gentleman from sport was in looking for you. Mr. Lienahan. Yes. He'll be in the Ormond at four. No, sir. Yes, sir. I'll ring them up after five. Two pink faces turned in the flair of the tiny torch. Who's that? Ned Lambert asked. Is that Crotty? Ringabella and Crosshaven, a voice replied, groping for foothold. Hello, Jack. Is that yourself? Ned Lambert said. Raising in salute his plant laugh among the flickering arches. Come in. Mind your steps there. The 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 moldy air closed round them. How interesting a refined accent said in the gloom. Yes, sir. Ned Lambert said heartily, we are standing in the historic council chamber of St. 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 Jew's temple was here, too, before they built their synagogue over an Adelaide Road. You were never here before, Jack, were you? No, Ned. He rode down through Dame Walk the refined accent said, if my memory serves me, the mansion of the killed heirs was in Thomas's court. That's right, Ned Lambert said. That's quite right, sir. If you will be so kind, then, the clergyman said. Next time to allow me, perhaps. Suddenly, 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. In the still faint light he moved about, tapping with his lath, the piled seed bags and points of vantage on the floor. From a long face a beard and gaze hung on a chest board. I'm deeply obliged, Mr. Lambert, the clergyman said. I won't trespass on your valuable time. You're welcome, sir, Ned Lambert said. Drop in whenever you like. Next week, say, can you see? Yes, yes. Good afternoon, Mr. Lambert. Very pleased to have met you. Pleasure is mine, sir, Ned Lambert answered. He followed his guest to the outlet and then whirled his lath away among the pillars. With JJ Omeloy he came forth slowly into Mary's Abbey, where Dremen were loading floats with sacks of carob and palm nut meal, O'Connor, Wexford. He stood to read the card in his hand. The Reverend Hugh C. Love, Wrathcoffey, present address St. Michael's Salons, nice young chap he is. He's writing a book about the Fitzgeralds, he told me. He's well up in history, Faith. The young woman with slow care detached from her light skirt, a clinging twig. I thought you were at a new gunpowder plot, JJ Omeloy said. Ned Lambert cracked his fingers in the air. God, he cried, I forgot to tell him that one about the Earl of Kildare after he set fire to Casual Cathedral. You know that one? I'm bloody sorry I did it, says he. But I declared 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 that Fitzgerald wore. Hot members they were, all of them, the Geraldines. The horses he passed started nervously under their slack harness. He slapped a peabald haunch, quivering near him and cried, Whoa, sunny! He turned to JJ Omeloy and asked, Well, Jack, what is it? What's the trouble? Wait a while, hold hard. With gaping mouth and head far back, he stood still. And after an instant, sneezed loudly. Chow! He said, Blast you! The dust from those sacks, JJ Omeloy said politely. 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 draft. He held his handkerchief ready for the coming. I was glasny of him this morning. Poor little, what do you call him? Chow! Mother of Moses! Tom Rockford took the top disk from the pile he clasped against his claret waistcoat. See, he said, say it's turned six. In here, see, turn now on. He slid it into the left slot for them. It shot down the groove, wobbled a while, ceased, ogling them six. Lawyers of the past, haughty, pleading, beheld pass from the Consolidated Taxing Office to the Nesey Prius Court, Richie Goulding carrying the cost-bag of Goulding, Collison 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. See, he said, see now the last one I put in is over here. Turns over. The impact. Leverage, see. He showed them the rising column of disks on the right. Smart idea, nosy Flynn said, snuffling. So a fellow coming in late can see what turn is on and what turns are over. See, Tom Rockford said. He slid in a disk for himself and watched it shoot wobble, ogle, stop, four. Turn now on. I'll see him now in the oar mon, Lena Hen said, and sound him. One good turn deserves another. Do, Tom Rockford said. Tell him I'm boiling with impatience. Good night, McCoy said abruptly. When you two begin, nosy Flynn stooped towards the lever, snuffing at it. But how does it work here, Tommy? He asked. To relue, Lena Hen said. See you later. He followed McCoy out across the tiny square of Crampton Court. He's a hero, he said simply. I know, McCoy said. The drain, you mean. Drain, Lena Hen said. It was down a manhole. They passed Dan Lowry's music hall, where Marie Kendall, charming soubrette, smiled on them from a poster, a dobby smile. Going down the path of Sycamore Street beside the Empire Music Hall, Lena Hen showed McCoy how the whole thing was. One of those manholes like a bloody gas pipe, and there was the poor devil stuck down in it, half choked with sewer gas. Down went Tom Rockford anyhow, bookies vesting all with the rope round him, and beat damned when he got the rope round the poor devil and the two were hauled up. The act of a hero, he said. At the dolphin they halted to allow the ambulance car to gallop past them for Jervis Street. This way, he said, walking to the right, I want to pop into linems to see Scepter's starting price. What's the time by your gold watch and chain? McCoy peered into Marcus Tertius Moses' somber office, then at O'Neill's clock. After three, he said, who's riding her? O'Madden, Lena Hen said, and a game-filly she is. While he waited in Temple Bar, McCoy 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. The gates of the drive opened wide to give egress to the vise regal cavalcade. Even money, Lena Hen said, returning, I knocked against Bantam Lions in there going to back a bloody horse someone gave him that hasn't an earthly through here. They went up the steps and under merchants' arch. A dark-backed figure scanned books on the hawker's cart. There he is, Lena Hen said. Wonder what he's buying, McCoy said, glancing behind. Leopoldo or the Bloom is on the rye, Lena Hen said. He's dead nuts on sales, McCoy 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. Lena Hen laughed. I'll tell you a damn good one about Comet's tails, he said. Come over in the sun. They crossed to the metal bridge and went along Wellington Quay by the river wall. Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam came out of Mangon's late Fahrenheit box, carrying a pound and a half of pork sticks. There was a long spread out at Glencree Reformatory, Lena Hen said eagerly. Daniel dinner, you know. Boiled shirt affair, the Lord Mayor was there. Val Dylan it was, and Sir Charles Cameron and Dan Dawson spoke, and there was music. Bartel Darcy sang, and Benjamin dollared. I know, McCoy broke in. My Mrs sang there once. Did she, Lena Hen said? A card to unfurnished apartments reappeared in the window sash of No. 7 Eccles Street. He checked his tail a moment, but broke out in a wheezy laugh. 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 curacao, to which we did ample justice. Fast and furious it was. After liquids came solids. Cold joints galore and mince pies. I know, McCoy said. The year the Mrs was there, Lena Hen linked his arm warmly. 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 Callanan were on one side of the car, and I was with the wife on the other. We started singing glies and duets. Low 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! He held his caved hands a cubit from him frowning. I was tucking the rug under her and settling her boa all the time, know what I mean? His hands molded ample curves in the air. He shut his eyes tight in delight, his body shrinking, and blew a sweet chirp from his lips. 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 Callanan and the Jarvie, the great bear and Hercules and the dragon, and the whole Jing Bang 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, weezy one miles away. And what stars that pole, he says she. By God she had bloom cornered. That one is it, says Chris Callanan. Sure, that's only what you might call a pinprick. By God he wasn't far wide of the mark. Lenehan stopped and leaned on the river wall, panting with soft laughter. I'm weak, he gasped. McCoy's white-faced smile about it at instance and grew grave. Lenehan walked on. He lifted his yachting-cap and scratched his hind-head rapidly. He glanced sideways in the sunlight at McCoy. He's a cultured all-round man, 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. Mr. 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 and blood-red 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. He laid both books aside and glanced at the third. Tales of the Ghetto by Leopold von Soccer Mausoch. That I had, he said, pushing it by. The shopman let two volumes fall on the counter. Them are two good ones, he said. Onions 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. On O'Connell Bridge many persons observed the grave deportment and gay apparel of Mrs. Dennis J. McGinney, Professor of Dancing, etc. Mr. Bloom, alone, looked at the titles. Fair Tyrants by James Love-Birch. Know the kind that is. Had it? Yes. He opened it. Thought so. The woman's voice behind the dingy curtain. Listen, the man. No, she wouldn't like that much. Got her at once. He read the other title. Sweets of Sin. More in her line. Let us see. He read where his finger opened. All the dollar bills her husband gave her were spent in the stores on wondrous gowns and costly as frillies. For him. For Ra'u. Yes. This. Here. Try. Her mouth glued on his in a luscious, voluptuous kiss, while his hands felt for the opulent curves inside her dishabilla. Yes. Take this. The end. You are late, he spoke hoarsely, eyeing her with a suspicious glare. The beautiful woman threw off her sable-trimmed wrap, displaying her queenly shoulders and heaving embern point. An imperceptible smile played round her perfect lips as she turned to him calmly. Mr. Bloom read again. The beautiful woman. Warmth 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 Ra'u, armpits' oniony sweat, fish-gluy slime, her heaving embern point. Feel. Press. Crushed. For dung of lions. Young. Young. An elderly female, no more young, left the building of the courts of chancery, king's bench, ex-checker, and common please, having heard in the Lord Chancellor's court the case in lunacy of Potterton, in the Admiralty Division the summons ex-parte motion of the owners of the Lady Cairns versus the owners of the Bank Mona, in the Court of Appeal Reservation of Judgment, in the case of Harvey versus the Ocean Accident and Guarantee Corporation. Flemmy coughs shook the air of the book-shop, bulging out the dingy curtains. The shopman's un-combed gray head came out, and his unshaven, reddened face coughing. He raked his throat rudely, puked flam on the floor. He put his boot on what he had spat, wiping his sole along it, and bent, showing a raw-skinned crown, scantily scared. Mr. Bloom beheld it. Mastering his troubled breath, he said, I'll take this one. The shopman lifted eyes bleared with old room. Sweets of sin, he said, tapping on it, that's a good one. The lackey, by the door of Dylan's auction-rooms, shook his hand-bell twice again, and viewed himself in the chalked mirror of the cabinet. Dilly deadless, loitering by the curb-stone, heard the beats of the bell, the cries of the auctioneer within, four and nine, those lovely curtains, five shillings, cozy curtains, selling new at two guineas. Any advance on five shillings? Going for five shillings. The lackey lifted his hand-bell and shook it. Bang! Bang of the last-lap bell spurred the half-mile wheelman to their sprint. J. A. Jackson, W. E. Wiley, A. Monroe, and H. T. Gayhan, their stretched necks wagging, negotiated the curve by the college library. Mr. deadless, tugging a long mustache, came round from Williams' row. He halted near his daughter. It's time for you, she said. Stand up straight for the love of the Lord Jesus, Mr. deadless said. Are you trying to imitate your Uncle John, the cornet player, head upon shoulder? Melancholy, God! Dilly shrugged her shoulders. Mr. deadless placed his hands on them and held them back. Stand up straight, girl, he said. You'll get curvature of the spine. Do you know what you look like? He let his head sink suddenly down and forward, hunching his shoulders and dropping his underjaw. Give it up, Father, Dilly said. All the people are looking at you. Mr. deadless drew himself upright and tugged again at his mustache. Did you get any money? Dilly asked. Where would I get money, Mr. deadless said? There is no one in Dublin would lend me forpence. You've got some, Dilly said, looking in his eyes. How do you know that? Mr. deadless asked, his tongue in his cheek. Mr. Kernan, pleased with the order he had booked, walked boldly along James's street. I know you did, Dilly answered. Were you in the scotch house now? I was not then, Mr. deadless said, smiling. Was it the little nuns taught you to be so saucy? Here, he handed her a shilling. See, if you can do anything with that, he said. I suppose you got five, Dilly said. Give me more than that. Wait a while, Mr. deadless said, threateningly. You're like the rest of them, are you? An insolent pack of little bitches since your poor mother died. But wait a while. You'll all get a short shrift in a long day from me. Low blaggardism! 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. He left her and walked on. Dilly followed quickly and pulled his coat. Well, what is it, he said, stopping. The lackey rang his bell behind their backs. Barang! Curse your bloody, blatant soul, Mr. deadless cried, turning on him. The lackey, aware of comment, shook the lolling clapper of his bell but feebly. Bang! Mr. deadless stared at him. Watch him, he said. It's instructive. I wonder will he allow us to talk. You got more than that, father, Dilly said. I'm going to show you a little trick, Mr. deadless said. I'll leave you all where Jesus left the Jews. Look, there's all I have. I got two shillings from Jack Power, and I spent tuppence for a shave for the funeral. He drew forth the handful of copper coins nervously. Can't you look for some money somewhere, Dilly said? Mr. deadless thought and nodded. I will, he said gravely. I looked all along the gutter in O'Connell Street. I'll try this one now. You're very funny, Dilly said, grinning. Here, Mr. deadless said, handing her two pennies. Get a glass of milk for yourself and a bun or something. I'll be home shortly. He put the other coins in his pocket and started to walk on. The vice regal cavalcade passed, greeted by obsequious policemen out of Parkgate. I'm sure you have another shilling, Dilly said. The lackey banged loudly. Mr. deadless amid the din walked off, murmuring to himself with a pursing, mincing mouth gently. The little nuns, nice little things. I'm sure they wouldn't do anything. I'm sure they wouldn't, really. Is it little Sister Monica? On the sundial toward James' gate walked Mr. Kernan, pleased with the order he had booked for Paulbrook, Robertson, boldly along James Street, past Shackleton's office. Got round him all right. How do you do, Mr. Crimmins? First rate, sir. I was afraid you might be up in your other establishment in Pimlico. How are things going? Just keeping alive. Lovely weather we're having. Yes, indeed. Good for the country. Those farmers are always grumbling. I'll just take a thimbleful of your best gin, Mr. Crimmins. A small gin, sir. Yes, sir. Terrible affair of that general slokum explosion. Terrible, terrible. A thousand casualties. And heart-rending scenes. Men trampling down women and children. Most brutal thing. What did they say was the cause? Spontaneous combustion. Most scandalous revelation. Not a single lifeboat would float and the fire hose all burst. What I can't understand is how the inspector's ever allowed a boat like that. Now you're talking straight, Mr. Crimmins. You know why? It's all moil. Is that a fact? Without a doubt. Well, now look at that. In America they say is the land of the free. I thought we were bad here. I smiled at him. America, I said quietly. Just like that. What is it? The sweepings of every country, including our own. Isn't that true? That's a fact. Graft, my dear sir. Well, of course, where there's money going, there's always someone to pick it up. So I'm looking at my frock coat. Dress does it. Nothing like a dressy appearance. Bowls them over. Hello, Simon, Father Cowley said. How are things? Hello, Bob old man, Mr. Dettles answered, stopping. Mr. Kernan halted and preened himself before the sloping mirror of Peter Kennedy, hairdresser. Stylish coat beyond a doubt. Scott of Dawson Street. Well worth the half-sovereign I gave neary for it. Never built under three guineas. Fits me down to the ground. Some killed-air street club toff had it, probably. John Mulligan, the manager of the Hibernian Bank. Gave me a very sharp eye yesterday on Carlisle Bridge, as if he remembered me. Ahem! Must dress the character for those fellows. Night of the road. Gentlemen. And now, Mr. Krimans, may we have the honour of your custom against, sir. The cup that cheers but not inebriates, as the old saying has it. North wall, and Sir John Rogerson's quay, with hulls and anchor chains, sailing westward, sailed by a skiff, a crumpled throw away, rocked on the ferry wash. Elijah is coming. Mr. Kernan glanced in farewell at his image. High colour, of course, grizzled mustache, returned Indian officer. Bravely he bore his stumpy body forward on spattered feet, squaring his shoulders. Is that Ned Lambert's brother over the way? Sam? What? Yes. He's as like it as damn it. No. The windscreen of that motor-car in the sun there. Just a flash like that. Damn like him. Ahem! Hot spirit of Juniper juice warmed his vitals in his breath. Good drop of gin that was. His frock-tails winked in bright sunshine to his fat strut. Down there Emmett was hanged, drawn, and quartered. Greasy black rope. Dogs licking the blood off the street when the Lord Lieutenant's wife drove by in her naughty. Bad times those were. Well, well. Over and done with. Great toppers, too. Four bottle men. Let me see. Is he buried in St. Dickens? Or no. There was a midnight burial in Glasnevin. Corpse brought in through a secret door in the wall. Dignum is there now. Went out in a puff. Well, well. Better turn down here and make a detour. Mr. Curnin turned and walked down the slope of Wattling Street by the corner of Guinness's visitor's waiting-room. Outside the Dublin Distillers Company's stores, an outside car without fare or Jarvie stood. The rain's knotted to the wheel. Damn dangerous thing. Some tipperary Boston endangering the lives of the citizens. Runaway horse. Dennis Breen with his toms, weary of having waited an hour in John Henry Menton's office, led his wife over O'Connell Bridge, bound for the office of Miss Ewers Collis and Ward. Mr. Curnin approached Island Street. Times of the Troubles. Musk asked Ned Lambert to lend me those reminiscences of Sir Jonah Barrington. When you look back on it all now in a kind of retrospective arrangement. Gaming at dailies. No card-sharping then. One of those fellows got his hand nailed to the table by a dagger. Somewhere here, Lord Edward Fitzgerald escaped from Majors, served stables behind a moor house. Damn good gin that was. Fine dashing young nobleman. Good stock, of course. That ruffian, that sham squire with his violet gloves gave him away. Of course they were on the wrong side. They rose in dark and evil days. In poem that is, Ingram. They were gentlemen. Ben Dollard does sing that ballad touchingly. Masterly rendition. At the siege of Ross did my father fall. A cavalcade in easy trot along Pembroke Quay passed. Outriders leaping. Leaping in their, in their saddles. Frot coats. Cream sunshades. Mr. Curnin hurried forward. Blowing pursily. His Excellency. Too bad. Just missed that by a hair. Damn it. What a pity. End of Section 18, read by Richard Wallace, Liberty, Missouri, September 9, 2010. Section 19 of Ulysses. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Ulysses by James Joyce, Part 2, The Odyssey, Episode 10, Wandering Rocks, Part 3. Stephen Dedalus, watched through the webbed window, the lapidaries' fingers, prove a time-dulled chain. Dust webbed the window in the show trays. Dust darkened the toiling fingers with their vulture nails. Dust slept on dull coils of bronze and silver, lozenges of cinnabar, on rubies, lepros and wine-dark stones. Born all in the dark, wormy earth, cold specks of fire, evil, lights shining in the darkness. Where fallen archangels flung the stars of their brows, muddy swine-snouts, hands, root and root, gripe and rest them. She dances in a foul gloom where the gum bums with garlic. A sailor-man, rust-bearded, sips from a beaker, rum and eyes her. Along in seafed silent rut. She dances, capers, wagging her sawish haunches in her hips, on her gross belly flapping a ruby egg. Old Russell with a smeared chamois rag, burnished again his gem, turned it and held it at the point of his Moses beard, grandfather ape gloating on a stolen hoard. And you who rest old images from the burial earth, the brain-sick words of Sophists and Tisthenes. A lore of drugs, orient and immortal wheat standing from everlasting to everlasting. Two old women fresh from their whiff of the briny, trudged through Irish town along London Bridge Road, one with a sanded, tired umbrella, one with a midwife's bag in which eleven cockles rolled. The whir of flapping leather and bands and hum of dynamos from the powerhouse urged Stephen to be on. One-glesed beings. Stop! Throb always without you, and the throb always within. Your heart you sing of. I between them. Where? Between two roaring worlds where they swirl. I. Shatter them, one and both, but stun myself too in the blow. Shatter me, you who can. Bawd and butcher were the words. I say, not yet awhile, I look around. Yes, quite true. Very large and wonderful and keeps famous time. You say right, sir. A Monday morning, twas so indeed. Stephen went down Bedford Row, the handle of the ash clacking against his shoulder blade. In Clohissie's window a faded 1860 print of Heenan boxing sayers held his eye. Staring backers with square hats stood round the roped prize ring. The heavyweights in tight loincloths proposed gently each to other his bulbous fists. And they are throbbing heroes' hearts. He turned and halted by the slanted book cart. Tuppants each, the huckster said. Four for sixpence. Tattered pages, the Irish beekeeper. Life and miracles of the curae of Arse. Pocket guide to Kalarney. I might find here one of my pawn to school prizes. Stefano de Deleau, alumno optimo, palmem farenti. Father Conmey, having read his little hours, walked through the hamlet of Donnie Carney, murmuring Vespers. Binding too good, probably. What is this, eighth and ninth book of Moses? Secret of all secrets, seal of King David, thumbed pages, read and read. Who has passed here before me? How to soften chapped hands. Recipe for white wine vinegar. How to win a woman's love? For me this. Say the following talisman, three times with hands folded. Say el yeelo nebrecata, femininum, amor, me solo, sanctus, amen. Who wrote this? Charms and invocations of the most blessed abbot, Peter Solanka, to all true believers divulged. As good as any other abbot's charms, as mumbling Joaquims. One baldy noddle, or will wool your wool. What are you doing here, Stephen? Dilly's high shoulders and shabby dress. Shut the book quick. Don't let see. What are you doing? Stephen said. A steward face of none such Charles, lank locks falling at its sides, it glowed as she crouched, feeding the fire with broken boots. I told her of Paris. Late lie-abed under a quilt of old overcoats, fingering a pinch-beck bracelet, Dan Kelly's Joaquins. Nebrecata femininum. What have you there, Stephen asked? I bought it from the other cart for a penny, Dilly said, laughing nervously. Is it any good? My eyes they say she has. Do others see me so? Quick, far and daring, shadow of my mind. He took the coverless book from her hand, Chardonel's French Primer. What did you buy that for, he asked, to learn French? She nodded, reddening and closing tight her lips. Chardonel's surprise. Quite natural. Here, Stephen said, it's all right. Mind Maggie doesn't pawn it on you, I suppose all my books are gone. Some, Dilly said, we had to. She is drowning, agon-bite, save her, agon-bite, all against us. She will drown me with her eyes, eyes and hair, lank coils of seaweed hair around me, my heart, my soul, salt-green death. We agon-bite of in-wit, in-wit's agon-bite, misery, misery. Hello Simon, Father Cowley said, how are things? Hello, Bob old man, Mr. Dedalus answered, stopping. They clasped hands loudly outside, ready in daughters. Father Cowley brushed his moustache off and downward with a scooping hand. What's the best news, Mr. Dedalus said? Why, then, not much, Father Cowley said. I'm barricaded up, Simon, with two men prowling around the house trying to effect an entrance. Jolly, Mr. Dedalus said, who is it? Oh, Father Cowley said, a certain Gombeen man of our acquaintance. With a broken back, is it, Mr. Dedalus asked? The same, Simon, Father Cowley answered. Ruben of that ilk. I'm just waiting for Ben Dollard. He's going to say a word to Long John to get him to take those two men off. All I want is a little time. He looked with vague hope up and down the quay, a big apple bulging in his neck. I know, Mr. Dedalus said, poor old buckety Ben. He's always doing a good turn for someone. Hold hard. He put on his glasses and gazed toward the metal bridge an instant. There he is, by God, he said, arson pockets. Ben Dollard's loose blue cutaway and square hat above large slops crossed the quay in full gait from the metal bridge. He came towards him at an amble, scratching actively behind his coattails. As he came near Mr. Dedalus greeted. Hold that fellow with the bad trousers. Hold him now, Ben Dollard said. Mr. Dedalus eyed with cold wandering scorn various points of Ben Dollard's figure. Then, turning to Father Cowley with a nod, he muttered sneeringly. That's a pretty garment, isn't it, for a summer's day? My God, eternally curse your soul, Ben Dollard, ground furiously. I threw out more clothes in my time than you ever saw. He stood beside them, beaming, on them first and on his roomy clothes from points of which Mr. Dedalus flicked fluff, saying, They were made for man in his health, Ben, anyhow. Bad luck to the juman that made them, Ben Dollard said. Thanks be to God he's not paid yet. And how is that basso profundo Benjamin? Father Cowley asked. Casual Boyle O'Connor FitzMaurice Tisdall Farrell, murmuring, glass-eyed, strode past the Kildare Street Club. Ben Dollard frowned, and, making suddenly a chanter's mouth, gave forth a deep note. Awww, he said. That's the style, Mr. Dedalus said, nodding to its drone. What about that, Ben Dollard said. Not too dusty, what? He turned to both. That'll do, Father Cowley said, nodding also. The Reverend Hugh C. Love, walked from the old chapter-house of St. Mary's Abbey, past James and Charles Kennedy's rectifiers, attended by Geraldine's tall and personable, towards the thosal beyond the Ford of Hurdles. Ben Dollard, with a heavy list towards the shop fronts, led them forward, his joyful fingers in the air. Come along with me to the sub-sheriff's office, he said. I want to show you the new beauty Rock has for a bailiff. He's a cross between Lubbinggula and Lynchishon. He's well worth seeing, mind you. Come along. I saw John Henry Menton casually on the bodega just now, and it will cost me a fall if I don't. Wait a while. We're on the right lay, Bob, believe you me. For a few days tell him, Father Cowley said anxiously. Ben Dollard halted and stared, his loud orifice open, a dangling button of his coat, wagging bright-backed from its thread, as he wiped away the heavy shroms that clogged his eyes to hear a rite. What, a few days, he boomed. Hasn't your landlord dis-trained for rent? He has, Father Cowley said. Then our friend's writ is not worth the papers printed on, Ben Dollard said. The landlord has the prior claim. I gave him all the particulars. Twenty-nine Windsor Avenue. Love is the name? That's right, Father Cowley said, the reverend Mr. Love. He's a minister in the country somewhere. But are you sure of that? You can tell Barabbas from me, Ben Dollard said, that he can put that writ where Jack O put the nuts. He led Father Cowley boldly forward, linked to his bulk. Philberts, I believe, they were, Mr. Dedalus said, as he dropped his glasses on his coat front, following them. The youngster will be all right, Martin Cunningham said, as they passed out of the castleyard gate. The policeman touched his forehead. God bless you, Martin Cunningham said, cheerily. He signed to the waiting-jarvy, who chucked at the reins, and set on towards Lord Edward Street. Bronze by gold, Miss Kennedy's head by Miss Deuce's head, appeared above the cross-blinds of the Ormond Hotel. Yes, Martin Cunningham said, fingering his beard. I wrote to Father Conny and laid the whole case before him. You could try our friend, Mr. Power, suggested, backward. Boyd? Martin Cunningham said shortly. Touch me not. John Wise Nolan, lagging behind, reading the list, came after them quickly down Cork Hill. On the steps of the City Hall, Councillor Nanetti, descending, held Alderman Cowley and Councillor Abraham Lyon ascending. The castle-car wheeled empty into Upper Exchange Street. Look here, Martin, John Wise Nolan said, overtaking them at the mail-office. I see Bloom put his name down for five shillings. Quite right, Martin Cunningham said, taking the list, and put down the five shillings, too. Without a second word, either, Mr. Power said. Strange but true, Martin Cunningham added. John Wise Nolan opened wide eyes. I'll say there is much kindness in the Jew, he quoted elegantly. They went down Parliament Street. There's Jimmy Henry, Mr. Power said, just heading for Kavanaugh's. Righto, Martin Cunningham said, here goes. Mr. LeMaison Clair blazes Boiland Weillet Jack Mooney's brother-in-law, humpy, tight, making for the Liberties. John Wise Nolan fell back with Mr. Power, while Martin Cunningham took the elbow of a dapper little man in a shower of hail suit, who walked, uncertainly, with hasty steps, past Mickey Anderson's watches. The assistant town clerk's corns are giving him some trouble, John Wise Nolan told Mr. Power. They followed round the corner towards James Kavanaugh's wine-rooms. The empty castle-car fronted them at rest in Essex Gate. Martin Cunningham, speaking always, showed often the list at which Jimmy Henry did not glance. And Long John Fanning is here, too, John Wise Nolan said, as large as life. The tall form of Long John Fanning filled the doorway where he stood. Good day, Mr. Sub-Sheriff, Martin Cunningham said, as all halted and greeted. Long John Fanning made no way for them. He removed his large Henry Clay decisively, and his large, fierce eyes scowled intelligently over all their faces. Are the conscript fathers pursuing their peaceful deliberations, he said, with rich, acrid utterance to the assistant town clerk? Hell opened to Christians they were having, Jimmy Henry said pettishly. About their damned Irish language. Where was the marshal, he wanted to know, to keep order in the council chamber. And old Barlow the mace-bearer, laid up with asthma, no mace on the table, nothing in order, no quorum even, and Hutchinson, the Lord Mayor, in Lendundo, in Little Lorcan Sherlock, doing locum tenants for him, damned Irish language, language of our forefathers. Long John Fanning blew a plume of smoke from his lips. Martin Cunningham spoke by turns, twirling the peak of his beard, to the assistant town clerk and the Sub-Sheriff, while John Wise Nolan held his peace. What dignum was that, Long John Fanning asked? Jimmy Henry made a grimace, and lifted his left foot. Oh, my corns, he said plaintively. Come upstairs for goodness' sake, till I sit down somewhere. Oof! Oh! Mind! Testily he made room for himself beside Long John Fanning's flank, and passed in and up the stairs. Come on up, Martin Cunningham said to the Sub-Sheriff. I don't think you knew him, or perhaps you did, though. With John Wise Nolan, Mr. Power followed them in. Decent little soul he was, Mr. Power said, to the stalwart back of Long John Fanning, ascending toward Long John Fanning in the mirror. Rather low-sized, dignum of Mentor's office that was, Martin Cunningham said. Long John Fanning could not remember him. Clatter of horse-hoofs sounded from the air. What's that, Martin Cunningham said? All turned to where they stood. John Wise Nolan came down again. From the cool shadow of the doorway he saw the horses past Parliament Street, harness and glossy pastures in sunlight shimmering. Galey they went past before his cool, unfriendly eyes, not quickly. In saddles of the leaders, leaping leaders, rode outriders. What was it, Martin Cunningham asked, as they went up on the staircase? The Lord Lieutenant General and General Governor of Ireland, John Wise Nolan answered from the stair-foot. As they trod across the thick carpet Buck Mulligan whispered behind his Panama to Haynes, Parnell's brother, there in the corner. They chose a small table near the window. Opposite a long-faced man whose beard and gaze hung intently down on a chessboard. Is that he, Haynes asked, twisting round in his seat? Yes, Mulligan said. That's John Howard, his brother, our city marshal. John Howard, Parnell, translated a white bishop quietly, and his gray claw went up again to his forehead, whereat it rested. An instant later, under its screen, his eyes looked quickly, ghost-bright, at his foe, and fell once more upon a working corner. I'll take a melange, Haynes said to the waitress. Two melanges, Buck Mulligan said, and bring us some scones and butter and some cakes as well. When she had gone, he said, laughing. We call it D.B.C. because they have damn bad cakes. Oh, but you missed deadless on Hamlet. Haynes opened his new-bought book. I'm sorry, he said. Shakespeare is the happy hunting-ground of all minds that have lost their balance. The one-legged sailor growled at the area of 14 Nelson Street. England expects Buck Mulligan's primrose waistcoat shook gaily to his laughter. You should see him, he said, when his body loses its balance. Wandering Angus, I call him. I am sure he has an E. Day feaks, Haynes said, pinching his chin thoughtfully with thumb and forefinger. Now I am speculating what it would be likely to be. Such persons always have. Buck Mulligan bent across the table gravely. They drove his wits astray, he said, by visions of hell. He will never capture the attic note. The note of Swinburne of all poets, the white death and the ruddy birth. That is his tragedy. He can never be a poet. The joy of creation. Eternal punishment, Haynes said, nodding curtly. I see. I tackled him this morning on belief. There was something on his mind, I saw. It's rather interesting because Professor Pokorny of Vienna makes an interesting point out of that. Buck Mulligan's watchful eyes saw the waitress come. He helped her to unload her tray. He can find no trace of hell in ancient Irish myth, Haynes said, amid the cheerful cups. The moral idea seems lacking, the sense of destiny, of retribution. Rather strange, he should have just that fixed idea. Does he write anything for your movement? He sank two lumps of sugar deftly longwise through the whipped cream. Buck Mulligan slit a steaming scone in two and plastered butter over its smoking pith. He bit off a soft piece hungrily. Ten years, he said, chewing and laughing. He is going to write something in ten years. Seems a long way off, Haynes said, thoughtfully lifting his spoon. Still I shouldn't wonder if he did after all. He tasted a spoonful from the creamy cone of his cup. This is real Irish cream, I take it, he said, with forbearance. I don't want to be imposed on. Elijah, skiff, light, crumpled throw away, sailed eastward by flanks of ships and trawlers, amid an archipelago of corks, beyond New Whopping Street, past Benson's Ferry, and by the three-masted schooner, rose Vian from Bridgewater with bricks. Al Medano Artifony walked past Hollis Street, past Sewell's Yard. Behind him, casual-boiled O'Connor, Fitzmarie's Tisdill Farrell, with stick-umbrella dustcoat dangling, shunned the lamp before Mr. Law Smith's house and, crossing, walked along Marion Square. Distantly behind him, a blind stripling tapped his way by the wall of College Park. Casual-boiled O'Connor, Fitzmarie's Tisdill Farrell, walked as far as Mr. Lewis Werner's cheerful windows, then turned and strode back along Marion Square, his stick-umbrella dustcoat dangling. At the corner of Wilde's house he halted, frowned at Elijah's name announced on the Metropolitan Hall, frowned at the distant pleasant of Duke's lawn. His eyeglass flashed frowning in the sun. With rat's teeth bared he muttered, coactus volui. He strode on for Claire Street, grinding his fierce word. As he strode past Mr. Bloom's dental windows, the sway of his dustcoat brushed rudely from its angle, a slender tapping cane, and swept onwards, having buffeted a thuless body. The blind stripling turned his sickly face after the striding form. God's curse on you, he said, sourly, whoever you are. You're blonder nor I am, you bitches bastard! Opposite Ruggy O'Donohos, Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam, pawing the pound and a half of mangan's late-farenbox pork-sticks he had been sent for, went along warm Wicklow Street, doddling. It was two blooming dulls sitting in the parlor with Mrs. Storre and Mrs. Quigley and Mrs. McDowell and the blind down, and they all at their sniffles and sipping supps of the superior Tawny Sherry, Uncle Barney, brought from Tunney's, and they eating crumbs of the cottage fruit-cake, jawing the whole blooming time and sighing. After Wicklow lain the window of Madame Doyle, courtdress milliner stopped him. He stood looking in at the two puckers, stripped to their pelts, and putting up their props. From the side mirrors, two mourning Masters Dignam gaped silently. Myler Keough, Dublin's pet lamb, will meet Sergeant Major Bennett, the Portobello bruiser, for a purse of fifty sovereigns. Gob, that'd be a good pucking match to see. Myler Keough, that's the chap sparring out to him with the green sash. Two bar entrance, soldier's half-price. I could easy do a bunk on Ma. Master Dignam on his left turned as he turned. That's me in mourning. When is it? May the twenty-second. Sure, the blooming thing is all over. He turned to the right, and on his right Masters Dignam turned, his cap or eye, his collar sticking up. Buttoning it down, his chin lifted, he saw the image of Marie Kindle, charming Soubrette, beside the two puckers. One of them moats that do be in the packets of fagged store-smokes that his old fellow welded hell out of him for a one time he found out. Master Dignam got his collar down and dawdled on. The best pucker going for strength was Fitzimons. One puck in the wind from that fellow would knock you into the middle of next week, man. But the best pucker for science was Jem Corbett, before Fitzimons knocked the stuffings out of him, dodging it all. In Grafton Street Master Dignam saw a red flower in a toff's mouth and a swell pair of kicks on him, and he listening to what the drunk was telling him and grinning all the time. No Sandy Mount Tram. Master Dignam walked along Nassau Street, shifting the pork steaks to his other hand. His collar sprang up again, and he tugged it down. The bloomin' stud was too small for the buttonhole of the shirt, blooming into it. He met schoolboys with satchels. I'm not going tomorrow, either. Stay away till Monday. He met other schoolboys. Do they notice I'm in mourning? Uncle Barney said he'd get it into the paper tonight. Then they'll all see it in the paper and read my name printed, and pause name. His face got all gray instead of being red like it was, and there was a fly walking over it up to his eye. The scrunch that was when they were screwing the screws into the coffin, and the bumps when they were bringing it downstairs. Pa was inside it, and Ma crying in the parlor, and Uncle Barney telling the men how to get it round the bend. A big coffin it was, and high and heavy looking. How was that? The last night Pa was boozed. He was standing on the landing there, balling out for his boots to go out to Tunnies for to booze more, and he looked buddy and short in his shirt. Never see him again. Death, that is. Pa is dead. My father is dead. He told me to be a good son to Ma. I couldn't hear the other things he said, but I saw his tongue and his teeth trying to say it better. Poor Pa. That was Mr. Dignam, my father. I hope he's in purgatory now because he went to confession to Father Conroy on Saturday night. William Humble, Earl of Dudley, and Lady Dudley, accompanied by Lieutenant Colonel Heseltine, drove out after luncheon from the Vicerigal Lodge. In the following carriage were the Honorable Mrs. Paget, Miss Decoursey, and the Honorable Gerald Ward, ADC, in attendance. The cavalcade passed out by the lower gate of Phoenix Park, saluted by obsequious policemen, and proceeded past King's Bridge, along the northern Quays. The Viceroy was most cordially greeted on his way through the Metropolis. At Bloody Bridge, Mr. Thomas Kernan, beyond the river, greeted him vainly from afar. Between Queens and Whitworth Bridges, Lord Dudley's Vicerigal carriages passed, and were unsoluted by Mr. Dudley White, B. L., M. A., who stood on Aaron Quay outside Mrs. M. E. White's, the Pawnbrokers, at the corner of Aaron Street West, stroking his own nose with his forefinger. Undecided whether he should arrive at Fibsboro, more quickly by a triple change of tram, or by hailing a car, or on foot through Smithfield, Constitution Hill, and Broadstone Terminus. In the porch of Fort Quartz, Richie Goulding, with the cost-beg of Goulding, Collison Ward, saw him with surprise. Past Richmond Bridge, at the doorstep of the office of Reuben J. Dodd, solicitor, agent for the Patriotic Insurance Company, an elderly female, about to enter, changed her plan, and retracing her steps by King's windows, smiled credulously on the representative of his majesty. From its sluice in wood-quay wall under Tom Devin's office, Poodle River hung out in a fealty a tongue of liquid sewage. Above the cross-blind of the Ormond Hotel, Gold by Bronze, Miss Kennedy's Head by Miss Deuce's Head watched and admired. On Ormond Quay, Mr. Simon Dedalus, steering his way from the greenhouse for the sub-sheriff's office, stood still in Midstreet and brought his hat low. His Excellency graciously returned Mr. Dedalus greeting. From Cahill's Corner, the Reverend Hugh C. Love, M.A., made obeisance unperceived, mindful of Lorde's deputies, whose hands benignant had held of your rich advousons. On Gretton Bridge, Lenehan and McCoy, taking leave of each other, watched the carriages go by. Passing by Roger Green's office, and Dollard's big red printing-house, Gertie McDowell, carrying the Catesby's cork lino-letters for her father who was laid up, newed by the style it was the Lord and Lady Lieutenant, but she couldn't see what her Excellency had on because the tram and Spring's big yellow furniture van had to stop in front of her on account of its being the Lord Lieutenant. Beyond londy foots from the shaded door of Cavanaugh's wine rooms, John Wise Nolan smiled with unseen coldness toward the Lord Lieutenant General and General Governor of Ireland. The right honorable William Humble, Earl of Dudley, G.C.V.O., past Mickey Anderson's all-times ticking watches, and Henry and James's waxed, smart-suited, fresh-cheeked models, the gentlemen Henry, Dernier Cree James. Over against Dame Gate, Tom Rockford and Nosey Flynn watched the approach of the cavalcade. Tom Rockford, seeing the eyes of Lady Dudley fixed on him, took his thumbs quickly out of the pockets of his Claret waistcoat and doffed his cap to her. A charming soubrette, Great Marie Kendall, with dobby cheeks and lifted skirt, smiled dobbly from her poster upon William Humble, Earl of Dudley, and upon Lieutenant Colonel H.G. Heseltine, and also upon the honorable Gerald Ward, A.D.C. From the window of the D.B.C., Buck Mulligan, Gailey, and Heinz Gravely gazed down on the vice regal equipage over the shoulders of eager guests, whose massive forms darkened the chessboard, whereon John Howard Parnell looked intently. In Founds Street, Dilly Dedalus, straining her sight upward from Chardonnall's first French primer, saw sunshades spanned and wheelspokes spinning in the glare. John Henry Menton, filling the doorway of commercial buildings, stared from wine-big oyster eyes, holding a fat gold hunter watch not looked at in his fat left hand, not feeling it. Where the foreleg of King Billy's horse pawed the air, Mrs. Breen plucked her hastening husband back from under the hoofs of the outriders. She shouted in his ear the tidings. Understanding, he shifted his toms to his left breast and saluted the second carriage. The Honorable Gerald Ward A.D.C., agreeably surprised, made haste to reply. At Ponson B.'s corner, a jaded white flaggin H. halted and foretall-hatted white flaggins halted behind him E.L.Y.S., while outriders pranced past and carriages. Opposite Piggots, music wearrooms, Mr. Dennis J. McGinney, professor of dancing, etc., gaily apparelled, gravely walked, outpast by a viceroy and unobserved. By the provost's swall came jauntly Blazes Boylan, stepping in tan shoes and socks, with sky-blue clocks to the refrain of My Girl's a Yorkshire Girl. Blazes Boylan presented to the leaders sky-blue frontlets and high action a sky-blue tie, a wide-brimmed straw hat at a rakish angle and a suit of indigo surge. His hands in his jacket-pockets forgot to salute, but he offered to the three ladies the bold admiration of his eyes and the red flower between his lips. As they drove along Nassau Street, his excellency drew the attention of his bowing consort to the program of music which was being discourced in College Park. Unseen brazen highland laddies blared and drum-thumped after the cortege. But though she's a factory lass and wears no fancy clothes, Baraboum, yet I have a sort of Yorkshire relish for my little Yorkshire rose, Baraboum. Thither of the wall the quarter-mile flat handicappers M. C. Green, H. Schrift, T. M. Patey, C. Skafe, J. B. Jeffs, G. N. Morphy, F. Stevenson, C. Adderley, and W. C. Huggard started in pursuit. Striding past Finn's Hotel, Casual Boyle O'Connor, Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, stared through a fierce eyeglass across the carriages at the head of Mr. M. E. Solomon's in the window of the Austro-Hungarian Vice Consulate. Deep in Linester Street by Trinity's Postern, a loyal Kingsman, Hornblower, touched his tally-ho cap. As the glossy horses pranced by Marion Square, Master Patrick Aloysius Dignum, waiting, saw salutes being given to the gent with the topper, and raised also his new black cap with fingers greased by pork steak paper. His collar, too, spring up. The viceroy, on his way to inaugurate the merus bizarre and aid of funds for Mercer's Hospital, drove with his following towards Lower Mount Street. He passed a blind stripling opposite Broadbent's. In Lower Mount Street, a pedestrian and a brown Macintosh, eating dry bread, passed swiftly and unscathed across the viceroy's path. At the Royal Canal Bridge, from his hoarding, Mr. Eugene Stratton, his blub-lips aggrin, bade all comers welcome to Pembroke Township. At Haddington Road Corner, two sanded women halted themselves, an umbrella and a bag in which eleven cockles rolled, to view with wonder the Lord Mayor and Lady Mayerus without his golden chain. On Northumberland and lands down-roads, his Excellency acknowledged punctually salutes from rare male walkers, the salute of two small schoolboys at the garden gate of the house said to have been admired by the late Queen when visiting the Irish capital with her husband, the Prince Consort, in 1849, and the salute of Almedano Artifony's sturdy trousers swallowed by a closing door. End of Section 19. Read by Richard Wallace, Liberty, Missouri, September 9, 2010. Section 20 of Ulysses. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Ulysses by James Joyce. Part 2, The Odyssey. Episode 11, Sirens. Part 1. Bronze by gold herded hoof irons, steely ringing, impertinent and chips, picking chips off rocky thumbnail chips. Horrid and gold flushed more. A husky five-note blue. Blue, blue bloom is on the gold pinnacled hair. A jumping rose and satiny breast of satin rose of Castile. Trilling, trilling eye Dolores. Peep, who's in the peep of gold? Tink cried to bronze in pity. And the call, pure, long and throbbing, long in dying call. Decoy, soft word, but look, the bright stars fade. Note, chirping answer. Oh, rose Castile, the morn is breaking. Jingle, jingle, jaunted, jingling, queen rang, clock clacked. Avowl, sunny, I would. Rebound of garter, not leave thee. Smack, la cloche, tie smack. Avowl, warm, sweetheart, goodbye. Jingle, blue, booned, crushing chords. When love absorbs war, war, the tympanum, a sail, a veil, a wave upon the waves. Lost, throttle fluted, all is lost now. Horn, haw horn. When first he saw, alas, full tub, full throb, warbling, ah lure, alluring. Martha, come. Clap, clap, clip, clap, clappy clap. Good God, he never heard. In all, deaf bald pat brought pad knife took up. A moonlit night call, far, far. I feel so sad. P.S., so lonely, glooming. Listen, despite and winding cold seahorn, have ye the, each and for other, plash and silent roar. Pearls, when she lists rhapsodies, hiss. You don't? Did not? No, no, believe, lid lid, with a cock and a cara. Black, deep sounding, do, bend, do. Wait while ye wait, he, wait while ye, he, but wait. Low in dark, middle earth, embedded oar. Now mind to mind, preacher is he, all gone, all fallen. Tiny, her tremulous fern foils of maiden hair. Amen, he gnashed in fury. Fro, to fro, a baton cool protruding. Bronze, Lydia, by Mina gold. By bronze, by gold, in ocean green of shadow. Bloom, old bloom. One wrapped, one tapped, with a cara, with a cock. Pray for him, pray, good people. His gouty fingers knackering. Big, bend, bend, big, bend, bend. Last rose, casteele of summer, left bloom. I feel so sad alone. Pwee, little wind piped wee. True men, lid, cara, cow, da, and doll. I, I, like you men. Will lift your chink with a chunk. Where bronze from an ear? Where gold from afar? Where hoofs? Gra, grindle. Then, not till then, my apricot taff be prrt. Done. Begin. Bronze by gold, Miss Deuce's head by Miss Kennedy's head, over the cross-blind of the Ormond bar, heard device regal hoofs go by, ringing steel. Is that her? asked Miss Kennedy. Miss Deuce said yes, sitting with his ex, Pearl Gray and Odinil. Exquisite contrast, Miss Kennedy said. When oligog Miss Deuce said, eagerly, look at the fellow in the tall silk. Who, where? Gold asked more eagerly. In the second carriage, Miss Deuce's wet lips said, laughing in the sun. He's looking, mind till I see. She darted, bronze to the backmost corner, flattening her face against the pain in a halo of hurried breath. Her wet lips tittered. He's killed, looking back. She laughed. Oh, wept. Aren't men frightful idiots? With sadness. Miss Kennedy sauntered sadly from bright light, twining a loose hair behind an ear. Sauntering sadly, gold no more, she twisted twined a hair. Sadly, she twined in sauntering gold hair behind a curving ear. It's them as defined times. Sadly then, she said, a man. Blue who went by by Mulang's pipes, bearing in his breast the sweets of sin. By wine's antiques, in memory bearing sweet sinful words. By Carol's dusky battered plate. For Raul. The boots to them, them in the bar, them barmates came. For them unheeding him, he banged on the counter his tray of chattering china. And, there is your teas, he said. Miss Kennedy with manners transposed the tea tray down to an upturned lithocrate, safe from eyes. No. What is it? Loud boots unmanorly asked. Find out, Miss Deuce retorted, leaving her spine point. Your bow, is it? A haughty bronze replied. I'll complain to Mrs. Demassie on you if I hear any more of your impertinent insolence. Impertinent. Boots snout sniffed rudely, as he retreated, as she threatened, as he had come. Bloom. On her flower frowning, Miss Deuce said, most aggravating that young brat is, if he doesn't conduct himself uttering his ear for him a yard long. Ladylike, in exquisite contrast. Take no notice, Miss Kennedy rejoined. She poured in a tea cup tea, then back in the teapot tea. They cowered under their reef of counter, waiting on footstools, crates upturned, waiting for their teas to draw. They pawed their blouses, both of black satin, two and nine yard, waiting for their teas to draw, and two and seven. Yes, bronze from an ear, by gold from afar, heard steel from an ear, hoofs ring from afar, and heard steel hoofs ring, hoofs ring, steel. Am I awfully sunburnt? Miss bronze unblowsed her neck. No, said Miss Kennedy, it gets brown after. Did you try to borax with the cherry laurel water? Miss Deuce half stood to see her skin, the scents in the barmure, gild lettered, where hawk and claret glasses shimmered, and in their midst a shell. And leave it to my hands, she said. Tried with the glycerine, Miss Kennedy advised. Bidding her neck and hands adieu, Miss Deuce, those things only bring out a rash. Replied, reseated. I asked that old Foggy and Boyd for something for my skin. Miss Kennedy, pouring now a full-drawn tea, grimaced and prayed. Oh, don't remind me of him for mercy's sake. But wait till I tell you, Miss Deuce entreated. Sweet tea, Miss Kennedy, having poured with milk, plugged both ears with little fingers. No, don't, she cried. I won't listen, she cried. But bloom, Miss Deuce, grunted in a snuffy Foggy's tone. For your what? says he. Miss Kennedy unplugged her ears to hear, to speak, but said, but prayed again. Don't let me think of him, or I'll expire. The hideous old wretch, that night in the anteant concert rooms. She sipped, distastefully her brew. Hot tea, a sip, sipped. Sweet tea. Here he was, Miss Deuce said, cocking her bronze head three quarters, ruffling her nose-wings. Ho-fah, ho-fah! Shwill shriek of laughter sprang for Miss Kennedy stroked. Miss Deuce huffed and snorted down her nostrils that quivered impersonant and like a snout in quest. Oh, shrieking, Miss Kennedy cried. Would you ever forget his goggle-eye? Miss Deuce chimed in, in deep, bronze laughter shouting. And your other eye? Blue Hooves Dark Eye. Red-iron Faggatner's name. Why do I always think Faggather? Gathering Faggs, I think. A prosperous Huguenut name. By bassies, blessed virgins. Blooms, dark eyes went by. Blue-robed, white under. Come to me. God, they believe she is. Oh, goddess. Those today, I could not see. That fellow spoke. The student. After a deadless son. He might be Mulligan. All comely virgins. That's what brings those rakes of fellow in, her white. By went his eyes. The sweets of sin. Sweet are the sweets of sin. In a giggling, peel, young, gold, bronze voices blended. Deuce with Kennedy, your other eye. They threw young heads back. Bronze, giggle, gold, to let free fly their laughter. Screaming, your other signals to each other. High, piercing notes. Ah, panting, sighing. Sighing, ah, foredone. Their mirth died down. Miss Kennedy, lipped her cup again. Raised, drank a sip and giggle, giggled. Miss Deuce, bending over the tea tray. Ruffled again her nose and rolled, droll, fattened eyes. Again, Kenny giggles, stooping. Her fair pinnacles of hair, stooping. Her tortoise nape come showed. Spluttered out of her mouth, her tea. Choking in tea and laughter. Coughing with choking, crying. Oh, greasy eyes. Imagine being married to a man like that, she cried. With his bitter beard. Deuce gave a full vent to a splendid yell. A full yell, a full woman. Delight, joy, indignation. Married to the greasy nose, she yelled. Shrew, with deep laughter. After they urged each, each to peel after peel. Ringing in changes, bronze gold, gold bronze. Shreel, deep to laughter, after laughter. And then laughed more. Greasy eye nose, exhausted, breathless. Their shaken heads they laid, braided and pinnacled. By glassy combed against the counter ledge. All flushed, oh panting, sweating. Oh, all breathless. Married to bloom, to grease a bloom. Oh, saints above, Miss Deuce said. Side, above her jumping rose. I wish I hadn't laughed so much, I feel all wet. Oh, Miss Deuce, Miss Kennedy protested. You hurried, dang, and flushed yet more. You hurried more, goldenly. By Cantwell's offices, robed, grease a bloom. By Keppie's virgins, bright of their oil. Nanetti's father hawked those things about Weedling at doors as I, religion pays. Must see him for that power. Eat first, I want, not yet, at four, she said. Time ever passing, clock hands turning. On, where eat, the Clarence, Dolphin? On, for, I will eat. If I net five guineas with those adds. The violet silk petticoats. Not yet, the sweets have sinned. Flushed, less, still less, goldenly paled. Into their bar, strolled Mr. Deadless. Chips, picking chips off one of his rocky thumbnails. Chips, he strolled. Oh, welcome back, Miss Deuce. He held her hand. Enjoyed her holidays. Tipped up. He hoped she had nice weather in Ross Trevor. Gorgeous, she said. Look at the holy show I am. Lying out in the strand all day. Bronze whiteness. That was exceedingly naughty of you, Mr. Deadless told her and pressed her hand indulgently. Tempting, poor, simple males. Miss Deuce of Satin deused her arm away. Oh, go away, she said. You're very simple, I don't think. He was. Well, now I am. He mused. I looked so simple in the cradle, they christened me simple Simon. You must have been a doty, Miss Deuce made answer. And what did the doctor order today? Well, now, he mused. Whatever you say yourself, I think I'll trouble you for some fresh water and a half a glass of whiskey. Jingle. With the greatest alacrity, Miss Deuce agreed. With grace of alacrity, towards the mirror, guilt, cantral and coquence, she turned herself. With grace, she tapped a measure of gold whiskey from her crystal keg. Fourth from the skirt of his coat, Mr. Deadless brought pouch and pipe. Alacrity she served. He blew through the flue two husky five notes. By Jove, he mused. I often wanted to see no more mountains. Must be a great tonic in the air down there. Long treponing comes at last, I say. Yes. He fingered shreds of hair, her maiden hair, her mermaids into the bowl. Chips, shreds, musing, mute. None not said nothing. Yes. Gaeli, Miss Deuce, polished a tumbler trilling. Oh, I, Dolores, Queen of the Eastern Seas. Was Mr. Lidwell in today? In came Lenehan. Round him peered Lenehan. Mr. Bloom reached Essex Bridge. Yes. Mr. Bloom crossed Bridge of Essex. To Martha, I must write. By paper, Dailies, girl their civil. Bloom, old Bloom. Blue Bloom is on the rye. He was in at lunchtime, Miss Deuce said. Lenehan, came forward. Was Mr. Boylan looking for me? He asked. She answered. Miss Kennedy, was Mr. Boylan in while I was upstairs? She asked. Miss Voice of Kennedy answered. A second teacup poised. Her gaze upon a page. No, he was not. Miss Gaze of Kennedy, heard, not seen, read on. Lenehan round the sandwich bell wound his round body round. Peep, who's in the corner? No glance of Kennedy rewarding him. He yet made overtures to mind her stops. To read only the black ones. Round O and Crocadesse. Jingle, jaunty, jingle. Girl gold she read and did not glance. Take no notice. She took no notice while he read by wrote a sofa table for her, clappering flatly. A fox met a starp. Said the fox to the starp, will you put your bill down in my throat and pull up a bone? He droned in vain. Miss Deuce turned to her tea aside. He sighed aside. Ah me, oh my. He greeted Mr. Deadless and got a knot. Greetings from the famous son of a famous father. Who may he be? Mr. Deadless asked. Lenhan opened most genial arms. Who? Who may he be? he asked. Can you ask Stephen the Youthful Bard? Dry. Mr. Deadless, famous father, laid by his dry-filled pipe. I see, he said. I didn't recognize him for the moment. I hear he is keeping very select company. Have you seen him lately? He had. I quaffed the nectar bowl with him this very day, said Lenhan. In Mooney's en vie and in Mooney's sore mare, he had received the rhino for the labor of his muse. He smiled at Bronze's tea-based lips, at listening lips and eyes. The elite of Aaron hung upon his lips. The ponderous pundit Hugh McHugh, Dublin's most brilliant scribe and editor and that minstrel boy of the wild, Wet West, who is known by the euphonious appellation of Neil Madden Burke. After an interval, Mr. Deadless raised his grog and that must have been highly diverting, said he. I see. He see. He drank. With far away morning mountain eye, sat down his glass. He looked towards the saloon door. I see you have moved to the piano. The tuner was in today, Miss Deuce replied, tuning it for the smoking concert and I never heard such an exquisite player. Is that a fact? Didn't he, Miss Kennedy, the real classical you know and blind to poor fellow, not twenty, I'm sure he was. Is that a fact? Mr. Deadless said. He drank and strayed away. So sad to look at his face. Miss Deuce condoned God's curse on bitches bastard. Tink to her pity, cried a diner's bell. To the door of the bar and dining room came bald pat, came bothered pat, came pat waiter of Ormond, lager for diner, lager without alacrity she served. With patience then hen waited for boiling with impatience, for jingle jaunty blazes boy, upholding the lid, he who, gazed in the coffin, coffin at the oblique triple piano wires, he pressed the same who pressed indulgently her hand, soft pedaling a triple of keys to see the thickness of felt advancing to hear the muffled hammer fall in action. Two sheets, cream vellum paper, one reserve, two envelopes. When I was in Wisdom Healy's wise bloom in Daly's Henry flowerbot. Are you not happy in your home? Flower to console me, and the pin cut slow. Means something, language of flow. Was it a daisy? Innocence that is. Respectable girl meets after mass. Thanks awfully muchly. Wise bloom eyed on the door a poster. A swaying mermaid, smoking mid nice waves. Smoke mermaids coolest whiff of all. Hair streaming. Lovelorn, for some man. For Raoul, he eyed, and saw afar on Essex bridge a gay hat riding on a jaunting car. It is, again, third time. Coincidence? Jingling on supple rubbers it jaunted from the bridge to Ormond Key. Follow, risk it, go quick. At four, near now, out. Two pins, sir, the shop girl dared to say. Ah, I was forgetting, excuse. And four. At four, she. Winsomely she, and blew him whom smiled. Blew smite, quick go, turn oom. Think you're the only pebble on the beach? Does that to all? For men. In drowsy silence, gold bent on her page. From the saloon, a call came long in dying. That was a tuning fork the tuner had that he forgot that he now struck. A call again. That he now poised that it now throbbed. You hear, it throbbed pure pure. Softly and softlier its buzzing prongs. Longer in dying call. Pat paid for diner's pop-corked bottle. And over tumbler tray and pop-corked bottle. Air he went, he whispered, bald and bothered with misduse. The bright stars fade. A voiceless song sang from within, singing. The morn is breaking. A do-deen of bird-notes chirped bright treble answer under sensitive hands. Brightly the keys all twinkling linked. Called to a voice to sing the strain of dewy mourn. Of youth, of loves, leave taking. Life's love's mourn. The dew drops pearl. Lennon's lips over the counter list a low whistle of decoy. But look this way, he said, rose of castile jingle jaunted by the curb and stopped. She rose and closed her reading. Rose of castile, fretted for Lorne. Rose. Did she fall or was she pushed? He asked her. She answered, slighting. Ask no questions and you'll hear no lies. Like lady, ladylike. Blazes Boyland's smart tan shoes creaked on the bar floor where he strode. Yes, gold from a near by bronze from afar. Lennon heard and knew and hailed him. See, the conquering hero comes. Between the car and window, wearily walking went bloom unconquered hero. See me, he might. The seat he sat on, warm. Black, wary. He cat-walked towards Richie Golding's legal bag. Lifted aloft, saluting. And I from the I heard you were around, said Blazes Boyland. He touched to fair Miss Kennedy a rim of his slanted straw. She smiled on him. But sister bronze outsmiled her, preening for him her richer hair. A bosom and a rose. Smart. Boyland bespoke potions. What's your cry? Glass of bitter? Glass of bitter, please. And a slow gin for me. Why are you in yet? Not yet. At four, she. At four. Cowley's red lugs and bulging apple in the door of the sheriff's office. Avoid Golding a chance. What is he doing in the Ormond? Car waiting. Wait. Hello, where after? Something to eat? I too was just... in here. What? Ormond? Best value in Dublin. Is that so? Dining room? Sit tight there. See, not be seen. Boom followed bag. Dinner fit for a prince. Miss Deuce reached high to take her flag and stretching her satin arm. Her bust that all but burst so high. Oh, oh, jerk linen. Gasping at each stretch. Oh. But easily she seized her prey and led it low in triumph. Why don't you grow? Asked Blazes Boyland. She runs. Looking from her oblique jar tick syrupy liquor for his lips. Looked as it flowed. Flower in his coat. Who gave him? And syruped with her voice. Fine goods in small parcels. That is to say she... neatly she poured. Slow, syrupy, slow. Here's fortune. Blazes said. He pitched a broad coin down. Coin rang. Hold on, said Lennon till I... Fortune, he wished. Lifting his bubbled ale. Scepter will win in a canter, he said. I plunged a bit, said Boyland. Winking and drinking. Not on my own, you know. Fancy of a friend of mine. Lennon still drank. And grinned at his tilted ale and at Miss Deuce's lips that all but hummed, not shut. The ocean song her lips had trilled. Ida Loris. The eastern seas. Cluck, word. Miss Kennedy passed their way. Flower, wonder who gave. Bearing away tea tray. Cluck, clacked. Miss Deuce took Boyland's coin. Struck boldly the cash register. It clanged. Cluck, clacked. Fair one of Egypt teased and sorted in the till and hummed and handed coins. And changed. Looked to the west. A clack for me. What time is that? Asked Blazes Boyland. Four o'clock. Lennon, small eyes, a hunger on her humming. Bust, a humming. Tugged Blazes Boyland's elbow sleeve. Let's hear the time, he said. The bag of golden callous ward lead bloom by rye bloom flowered tables. Aimless he chose with agitated aim. Bald Pat attending. A table near the door. Be near. At four. Has he forgotten? Perhaps a trick? Not come, what appetite? I couldn't do. Wait, wait. Pat. Waiter, waited. Sparkling bronze, azure. Eyed, blazers, eye, blue, bow, and eyes. Go on. Press Lennon. There's no one. He never heard. Two flores' lips did high. High. A high note pealed in the treble clear. Bronze deuce, communing with her rose that sank and rose. Sot Blazes Boyland's flower and eyes. Please, please. He pleaded over returning phrases of a vowel. I could not leave, leave. Afterwards, Miss Deuce promised coily. No. Now. Urged Lennon. Sonny lacklosh. Oh, dude, there's no one. She looked. Quick. Miss Ken, out of your shot. Sudden bent. Two kindling faces watched her bend. Quavering the cords strayed from the air. Found it again. Lost cord and glossed and found it faltering. Go on. Do, Sonny. Bending, she nipped a peak of skirt above her knee. Delayed. Tall did them still. Bending, suspending with willful eyes. Sonny. Smack. She set free, sudden and rebound her nipped elastic garter. A warm against her smackable a woman's warm hose to die. Lacklosh cried gleeful Lennon. Trained by owner, no saddest there. She smiles, merked supercilious wept, art men. But lightward gliding mild she smiled on Boylan. You're the essence of vulgarity she in gliding said. Boylan eyed tossed to fat lips his chalice drank off his chalice tiny sucking the last fat violet syrupy drops. His spellbound eyes went after after her gliding head as it went down the bar by mirrors. Gilded arch for ginger ale, hot and clared glasses shimmering a spiky shell where it concerted bronze with sunnier bronze yes bronze from a nearby sweet heart goodbye I'm off, said Boylan with impatience. He slid his chalice brisk away grasped his change way to shake beg Lennon drinking quickly I wanted to tell you Tom Roachford come on to Blazes said Blazes Boylan going Lennon gulped to go got the horn or what he said wait I'm coming he followed the hasty creaking shoes but stood by nimbly by the threshold saluting forms a bulky with a slender how do you do Mr. Dollard hey how do how do Ben Dollard's vague base answered turning an instant from Father Cowley's well you won't give you any trouble Bob Alf Bergen will speak to the long fellow we'll put a barley straw in that Judas Iscariot's ear this time sighing Mr. Deadless came through the saloon a finger soothing an eyelid ho ho we will Ben Dollard yodeled jolly come on Simon give us a diddy we heard the piano bald pat bothered waiter waited for our drink orders power for Richie and Bloom let me see not make him walk twice his corn's for now how warm this black is coarse nerves a bit refracts is as heat let me see cider yes butler cider what's that Mr. Deadless said I was only vamping man come on come on Ben Dollard called be gone dole care come Bob he ambled Dollard bulky slaps before them hold that fellow with the hold him now into the saloon he plumped him Dollard on the stool his gouty paws plumped cords plumped stopped abrupt bald pat in the doorway met tealess gold returning bothered he wanted power and cider bronze by the window watched bronze from afar jingle a tinkle jaunted Bloom heard a jing a little sound he's off light sob breath Bloom sighed on the silent blue hued flowers jingling he's gone jingle here love and war Ben Mr. Deadless said God be with old times end of section 20