 section seven of Ulysses. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For further information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Ulysses by James Joyce. Part 2 The Odyssey. Episode 6 Hades. Part 1. Martin Cunningham first poked his silk-cutted head into the creaking carriage and entering deftly seated himself. Mr. Power stepped in after him, curving his height with care. Come on, Simon. After you, Mr. Bloom said. Mr. Deedalus covered himself quickly and got in, saying, yes, yes. Are we all here now, Martin Cunningham asked. Come along, Bloom. Mr. Bloom entered and sat in the vacant place. He pulled the door, too, after him and slammed it tight till it shut tight. He passed an arm through the armstrap and looked seriously from the open carriage window at the lowered blinds of the avenue. One dragged aside, an old woman peeping, nose white-flattened against the pain. Thanking her stars, she was passed over. Extraordinary interest they'd taken at corpse. Glad to see us go, we'd give them such trouble coming. Job seems to suit them, hug a mugger in corners, slop about in slipper slappers for fear he'd wake. Then getting it ready, laying it out. Molly and Mrs. Flaming making the bed. Put it more to your side. Our winding sheet. Never know who will touch you dead. Wash and shampoo. I believe they clipped the nails and the hair. Keep a bit in an envelope. Grow all the same after. Unclean job. All waited. Nothing was said. Stowing in the wreaths, probably. I'm sitting on something hard. Ah, that soap in my hip pocket. Better shifted out of that. Wait for an opportunity. All waited. Then wheels were heard from in front, turning. Then nearer. Then horses hoofs. A jolt. Their carriage began to move, creaking and swaying. Other hoofs and creaking wheels started behind. The blinds of the avenue passed to number nine with its crepe knocker, door ajar. At walking pace. They waited still, their knees jogging, till they had turned and were passing along the tram tracks. Tritonville Road. Quicker. The wheels rattled, rolling over the cobbled causeway, and the crazy glasses shook, rattling in the door frames. What way is he taking us? Mr. Power asked through both windows. Irish town, Martin Cunningham said, rings end, Brunswick Street. Mr. Deedalus nodded, looking out. That's a fine old custom, he said. I'm glad to see it has not died out. All watched a while through their windows, cats and hats lifted by passers. Respect! The carriage swerved from the tram track to the smoother road past Watery Lane. Mr. Blument Gaze saw a lithe young man clad in mourning, a white hat. There's a friend of yours gone by, Deedalus, he said. Who is that? Your son and heir. Where is he? Mr. Deedalus said, stretching over a cross. The carriage, passing the open drains and mounds of ripped-up roadway before the tenement houses, lurched round the corner, and, swerving back to the tram track, rolled on noisily with chattering wheels. Mr. Deedalus fell back, saying, was that mulligan cad with him? His feed was arcates. No, Mr. Bloom said. He was alone. Down with his aunt Sally, I suppose, Mr. Deedalus said, the Golding faction, the drunken little costrawer and Chrissy, Papa's little lump of dung, the wise jarred that knows her own father. Mr. Bloom smiled joylessly on Ring's End Road. Wallace Bross, the bottle-works, Dodder Bridge, Richie Golding and the legal bag. Golding, Collison Ward, he calls the firm. His jokes are getting a bit damp. Great card he was. Walsing in Stammer Street with Ignatius Gallagher on a Sunday morning, the landlady's two hats pinned on his head, out on the rampage all night. We're getting to telling him now, that backache of his eye fear. Wife ironing his back, thinks he'll cure it with pills. All breadcrumbs they are. About 600% profit. He's in with a low-down crowd. Mr. Deedalus smiled. That mulligan is a contaminated, bloody, double-dyed ruffian by all accounts. His name stinks all over Dublin. But with the help of God and his blessed mother, I'll make him my business to write a letter one of those days to his mother, or his aunt, or whatever she is, that will open her eye as wide as a gate. I'll tickle his catastrophe, believe you me. He cried above the clutter of the wheels. I won't have a bastard of a nephew ruin my son, a counter jumper's son, selling tapes in my cousin Peter Paul McSwiney's, not likely. He ceased. Mr. Bloom glanced from his angry moustache to Mr. Power's mild face, and Martin Cunningham's eyes and beard gravely shaking. Noisy, self-willed man. Full of his son, he is right. Something to hand on. If little rude he had lived, see him grow up. Hear his voice in the house, walking beside Molly in an eaten suit. My son. Me in his eyes. Strange feeling it would be. From me, just a chance. Must have been that morning in Raymond Terrace. She was at the window, watching the two dogs at it by the wall of the cease to do evil. And the sergeant grinning up. She had that cream gown on, with the rip she never stitched. Give us a touch, Polly. God, I'm dying for it. Our life begins. Got big then, had to refuse the Greystone's concert. My son inside her. I could have helped him on in life. I could. Make him independent. Learn German, too. Are we late? Mr. Power asked. 10 minutes, Martin Cunningham said, looking at his watch. Molly Millie. Same thing watered down her tomboy oaths. Oh, jumping Jupiter. She gods and little fishes. Still, she's a dear girl. Soon be a woman. Mullingar. Dearest Pappley. Young student. Yes, yes. A woman, too. Life, life. The carriage healed over and back. Their four trunks swaying. Corny might have given us a more commodious yoke, Mr. Power said. He might, Mr. Diedler said. If he hadn't that squint troubling him. Do you follow me? He closed his left eye. Martin Cunningham began to brush away crust crumbs from under his thighs. What is this? He said, in the name of God, crumbs. Someone seems to have been making a picnic party here lately, Mr. Power said. All raised their thighs, eyed with disfavour, the mildewed, buttonless leather of the seats. Mr. Diedler, twisting his nose, frowned downward and said, unless I'm greatly mistaken. What do you think, Martin? It struck me, too, Martin Cunningham said. Mr. Bloom set his thigh down. Glad I took that bath. Feel my feet quite clean. But I wish Mrs. Fleming had darned these socks better. Mr. Diedler sighed, resignedly. After all, he said, it's the most natural thing in the world. Did Tom Curnon turn up? Martin Cunningham asked, twirling the peak of his beard gently. Yes, Mr. Bloom answered. He's behind with Ned Lambert and Hines. And Corny Keller heard himself, Mr. Power asked, at the cemetery, Martin Cunningham said. I met McCoy this morning, Mr. Bloom said. He said he tried to come. The carriage halted short. What's wrong? We stopped. Where are we? Mr. Bloom put his head out of the window. The grand canal, he said. Gasworks. Who pink off? They say it queers. Good job, Millie never got it. Poor children. Doubles them up. Black and blue in convulsions. Shame, really. Got a flight, Lee, with illness compared. Only measles. Flax seed tea. Scarlatina. Influenza epidemics. Canvassing for death. Don't miss this chance. Dog's home over there. Poor old Athos. Be good to Athos, Leopold. Is my last wish. I will be done. We obey them in the grave. A dying scrawl. He took it to heart. Pined away. Quiet brute. Old men's dogs usually are. A raindrop spat on his hat. He drew back and saw an instant of shower spray dots over the gray flags. Apart. Curious. Like through a calendar. I thought it would. My boots were creaking. I remember now. The weather is changing, he said quietly. Petty it did not keep up fine, Martin Cunningham said. Wanted for the country, Mr. Power said. There's the sun again coming out. Mr. Deedless peering through his glasses towards the veiled sun, hurled a mute curse at the sky. It's as uncertain as a charred bottom, he said. We're off again. The carriage turned again its stiff wheels and their trunks swayed gently. Martin Cunningham twirled more quickly the peak of his beard. Tom Kernan was immense last night, he said, and Paddy Leonard taking him off to his face. Oh, draw him out, Martin, Mr. Power said eagerly. Wait till you hear him, Simon, on Ben Dollard singing of the croppy boy. Immense, Martin Cunningham said pompously. His singing of that simple ballad, Martin, is the most trenchant rendering I ever heard in the whole course of my experience. Trenchant, Mr. Power said, laughing. He's dead nuts on that. And the retrospective arrangement. Did you read Dan Dawson's speech, Martin Cunningham asked? I did not then, Mr. Deedless said, Where is it? In the paper this morning, Mr. Bloom took the paper from his face inside pocket. That book I must change for her. No, no, Mr. Deedless said quickly. Later on, please. Mr. Bloom's glance traveled down the edge of the paper, scanning the deaths. Callan, Coleman, Dignam, Fawcett, Lowry, Nauman, Peake. What Peake is that? Is it the chap who was in Crosby and Alleynes? No. Sexton, Urbrite. Inked characters fast fading on the frayed breaking paper. Thanks to the little flower, sadly missed, to the inexpressible grief of his, aged 88 after a long and tedious illness. Months, mind. Quinlan, on whose soul sweet Jesus have mercy. It is now a month since dear Henry fled to his home up above in the sky, while his family weeps and mourns his loss, hoping someday to meet him on high. I tore up the envelope. Yes. Where did I put her letter after I read it in the bath? He patted his waistcoat pocket there, all right. Dear Henry fled, before my patients are exhausted. National school meets yard. The hazard. Only two there now. Nodding. Full as a tick. Too much bone in their skulls. The other trotting round with a fare. An hour ago I was passing there. The Jarvis raised their hats. Appointsman's back straightened itself upright suddenly against the tramway standard by Mr Bloom's window. Couldn't they invent something automatic so that the wheel itself, much handier? Well, but that fellow would lose his job then. Well, but then another fellow would get a job making the new invention. Ancient concert rooms. Nothing on there. A man in a buff suit with a crepe armlet. Not much grief there. Quarter morning. People in law perhaps. They went past the bleak pulpit of St. Mark's under the railway bridge, past the Queen's theater in silence. Hordings, Eugene Stratton, Mrs Bandman Palmer. Could I go to see Leah tonight, I wonder? I said I. Or the lily of Kilani. Elster Grimes Opera Company. Big powerful change. Wet, bright bills for next week. Fun on the Bristol. Martin Cunningham could work a pass for the gaiety. Have to stand a drink or two. As broad as it's long. He's coming in the afternoon. Her songs. Plastos. Sir Philip Crampton's Memorial Fountain Bust. Who was he? How'd you do? Martin Cunningham said, raising his palm to his brow in salute. He doesn't see us, Mr. Power said. Yes, he does. How'd you do? Who? Mr. Deedless asked. Places Boiland, Mr. Power said. There he is, airing his quiff. Just that moment I was thinking. Mr. Deedless bent across the salute. From the door of the red bank, the white disk of a straw hat flashed reply. Past. Mr. Bloom reviewed the nails of his left hand, then those of his right hand. The nails. Yes. Is there anything more in him that they, she sees? Fascination. Worst man in Dublin. That keeps him alive. They sometimes feel what a person is. Instinct. But a type like that. My nails. I'm just looking at them. Well pared. And after thinking alone, body getting a bit softy. I would notice that from remembering. What causes that? I suppose the skin can't contract quickly enough when the flesh falls off. But the shape is there. The shape is there still. Shoulders, hips, plump. Night of the dance, dressing. Shift stuck between the cheeks behind. He clasped his hands between his knees and satisfied, sent his vacant glance over their faces. Mr. Power asked, How is the concert tour getting on Bloom? Oh, very well, Mr. Bloom said. I hear great accounts of it. It's a good idea. You see, are you going yourself? Well, no, Mr. Bloom said. In point of fact, I have to go down to the county clear on some private business. You see, the idea is to tour the chief towns. What you lose on one, you can make up on the other. Quite so, Martin Cunningham said. Mary Anderson is up there now. Have you good artists? Louis Werner is touring her, Mr. Bloom said. Oh, yes, we'll have all the top nobbers, JC Doyle and John McCormack, I hope, and the best in fact. And madame, Mr. Power said, smiling. Last but not least. Mr. Bloom unclasped his hands in a gesture of soft politeness and clasped them. Smith O'Brien. Someone has laid a bunch of flowers there. Woman must be his death day. For many happy returns. The carriage, wheeling by Farrell's statue, united noiselessly their unresisting knees. Boot! A dull, garbed old man from the curb stone, tendered his wares, his mouth open. Boot! Four bootlaces for a penny. Wonder why he was struck off the rolls. Had his office in Hume Street. Same house as Molly's namesake. Tweedy, crowned solicitor for Waterford. As that silk hat ever since. Relics of old decency. Morning, too. Terrible come-down, poor wretch. Kicked about like snuff at awake. Oh, Callaghan on his last legs. And madame, 20 past 11. Up. Mrs. Fleming is interclean, doing her hair humming. Volioe non vorae. No, vorae e non. Looking at the tips of her hairs to see if they're split. Mitrema un bogoel. Beautiful on that tre, her voice is weeping tone. A thrust. A throttle. There is a word, throttle, that expressed that. His eyes passed lightly over Mr. Power's good-looking face. Grace over the ears. Madame, smiling. I smiled back. Smile goes a long way. Only politeness, perhaps. Nice fellow. Who knows? Is that true about the woman he keeps? Not pleasant to the wife. Yet they say, who was it told me? There is no carnal. You would imagine that would get played out pretty quick. Yes, it was Crofton met him one evening, bringing her a pound of rump steak. What is this she was? Barmaid injuries. Or the Moira was it? They passed under the huge cloaked liberator's form. Martin Cunningham nudged Mr. Power. Of the tribe of Ruben, he said. A tall black-bearded figure bent on a stick stumping round the corner of Elvry's Elephant House showed them a curved hand open on his spine. In all his pristine beauty, Mr. Power said. Mr. Deedalus looked after the stumping figure and said mildly, the devil break the haze with your back. Mr. Power collapsing in laughter, shaded his face from the window. That's the carriage past Grace statue. We've all been there, Martin Cunningham said broadly. His eyes met Mr. Bloom's eyes. He caressed his beard, adding, well, nearly all of us. Mr. Bloom began to speak with a sudden eagerness to his companions' faces. That's an awfully good one that's going the rounds about Ruben, Jay and the Sun. About the boatman, Mr. Power asked. Yes, isn't it awfully good? What is that, Mr. Deedalus asked? I didn't hear it. There was a girl in the case, Mr. Bloom began, and he determined to send him to the Isle of Man, out of harm's way. But when they were both What, Mr. Deedalus asked? That confirmed bloody hobbledy hoy, is it? Yes, Mr. Bloom said. They were both on the way to the boat, and he tried to drown, drown Barabbas. Mr. Deedalus cried. I wish to Christ he did. Mr. Power sent a long laugh down his shaded nostrils. No, Mr. Bloom said, the Sun himself. Martin Cunningham thwarted his speech rudely. Ruben, Jay and the Sun were piking it down the key, next the river, on their way to the Isle of Man boat, and the young chiseler suddenly got loose and over the wall with him into the liffey. For God's sake, Mr. Deedalus exclaimed in fright. Is he dead? Dead, Martin Cunningham cried. Not he. The boatman got a pole and fished him out by the slack of the breeches, and he was landed up to the father on the key. More dead than alive, half the town was there. Yes, Mr. Bloom said, but the funny part is, and Ruben Jay, Martin Cunningham said, gave the boatman a flooring for saving his son's life. A stifled sigh came from under Mr. Power's hand. Oh, he did, Martin Cunningham affirmed, like a hero, a silver flooring. Isn't it awfully good, Mr. Bloom said eagerly? Won an apence too much, Mr. Deedalus said dryly. Mr. Power's choked laugh burst quietly in the carriage. Nelson's pillar. Eight plums of penny, eight for a penny. We had better look a little serious, Martin Cunningham said. Mr. Deedalus sighed. And then indeed, he said, poor little Paddy wouldn't grudge us a laugh. Many a good one, he told himself. The Lord forgive me, Mr. Power said, wiping his wet eyes with his fingers. Poor Paddy, a little thought a week ago when I saw him last, and he was in his usual health, that I'd be driving after him like this. He's gone from us. As decent a little man as ever wore a hat, Mr. Deedalus said, he went very suddenly. Break down, Martin Cunningham said, heart. He tapped his chest, sadly. Blazing face, red hot, too much John Barley corn, cure for a red nose. Drink like the devil till it turns out a light. A lot of money he spent colouring it. Mr. Power gazed at the passing houses with rueful apprehension. He had a sudden death, poor fellow, he said. The best death, Mr. Bloom said. Their wide open eyes looked at him. No suffering, he said. A moment and all he's over, like dying in sleep. No one spoke. Dead side of the street this, dull business by day, land agents, temperance hotel, Falconer's Railway Guide, civil service college, gills, Catholic club, the industrious blind. Why, some reason, sun or wind? At night, too, chummies and slavies, under the patronage of the late father Matthew, foundation stone for Parnell. Break down, heart. White horses with white front lit plumes came round the rotunda corner, galloping. A tiny coffin flashed by, in a hurry to bury. A morning coach, unmarried, black for the married, piebald for bachelors, done for a nun. Sad, Martin Cunningham said. A child. A dwarf's face, mauve and wrinkled like little Rudy's was. Dwarf's body, weakest putty, in a white-lined deal box. Burial, friendly society pays, penny a week for a sod of turf. Our little beggar, baby, meant nothing, mistake of nature. If it's healthy, it's from the mother. If not, the man. Better luck next time. Poor little thing, Mr. Deedless said. It's well out of it. The carriage climbed more slowly, the hill of Rutland Square. Rattle his bones over the stones, only a pauper nobody owns. In the midst of life, Martin Cunningham said. But the worst of all, Mr. Power said, is the man who takes his own life. Martin Cunningham drew out his watch briskly, coughed, and put it back. The greatest disgrace to have in the family, Mr. Power added. Temporary insanity, of course, Martin Cunningham said decisively. We must take a charitable view of it. They say a man who does it is a coward, Mr. Deedless said. It is not for us to judge, Martin Cunningham said. Mr. Bloom, about to speak, closed his lips again. Martin Cunningham's large eyes. Looking away now, sympathetic human man he is. Intelligent, like Shakespeare's face. Always a good word to say. They have no mercy on that here, or infanticide. Refuse Christian burial. They used to drive a stake of wood through his heart in the grave, as if it wasn't broken already. Yet sometimes they repent too late. Pound in the riverbed, clutching rushes. He looked at me, and that awful drunkard of a wife of his, setting up house for her time after time, and then pawning the furniture on him every Saturday almost. Leading him the life of the damned. Wear the heart out of a stone, that. Monday morning, starter fresh. Shoulder to the wheel. Lord, she must have looked to sight at night. Deedless told me he was in there. Drunk about the place and capering with Martin's umbrella. And they called me the jewel of Asia, of Asia, the geisha. He looked away from me. He knows, rattled his bones. That afternoon of the inquest, the red labelled bottle on the table. The room in the hotel with hunting pictures. Stuffy it was. Sunlight through the slats of the Venetian blinds. The coroner's ears, big and hairy. Boots giving evidence. Thought he was asleep first. Then saw light yellow streets on his face. Had slipped down to the foot of the bed. Burd it, overdose. Death by misadventure. The letter. For my son, Leopold. No more pain. Wait no more. Nobody owns. The carriage rattled swiftly along Blessington Street over the stones. We are going the pace, I think, Martin Cunningham said. God grant he doesn't upset us on the road. Mr. Power said. I hope not, Martin Cunningham said. That will be a great race tomorrow in Germany, the Gordon Bennett. Yes, by Jove, Mr. Deedless said. That will be worth seeing. Faith. As they turned into Barclay Street, a street organ near the basin sent over and after them a rollicking, rattling song of the halls. Has anybody here seen Kelly? K-E-Double-L-Y. Dead March from Saul. He's as bad as old Antonio. Left me on my own, yo. Pirouette. The Martyr Misericordi. Echo Street. My house down there. Big place. Ward for incurables there. Very encouraging. Our lady's hospice for the dying. Dead house handy underneath. Where old Mrs. Riordan died. They looked terrible, the women. Her feeding cup and rubbing her mouth with the spoon. Then the screen round her bed for her to die. Nice young student that was dressed that by at the bee gave me. He's gone over to the lying-in hospital, they told me. From one extreme to the other. The carriage gulped round the corner. Stopped. What's wrong now? A divided drove of branded cattle past the windows. Lowing, slouching by on padded hoofs, whisking their tails slowly on their clotted bony crooks. Outside them and through them ran rattle-cheap, bleeding their fear. Amigrants, Mr. Powell said. Ah, the drover's voice cried. His switch sounding on their flanks. Ah, out of that! Thursday, of course. Tomorrow is killing day. Springers. Cuffs sold them about twenty-seven quid each. For Liverpool, probably. Roast beef for Old England. They buy up all the juicy ones. And then the fifth quarter is lost. All that raw stuff. Hide, hair, horns. Comes to a big things in a year. Dead meat trade. Buy products of the slaughterhouse for tanneries. So, margarine. Wonder if that dodge works now. Getting dicky meat off the train at Clonciller. The carriage moved on through the drove. I can't make out why the corporation doesn't run a tram line from the park gate to the keys. Mr. Bloom said. All those animals could be taken in trucks down to the boats. Instead of blocking up the thoroughfare, Martin Cunningham said. Quite right. They ought to. Yes, Mr. Bloom said. And another thing I often thought is to have municipal funeral trams, like they have in Milan, you know. Run the line out to the cemetery gates and have special trams. Hurts and carriage and all. Don't see what I mean. Oh, that'd be damn for a story. Mr. Diedel has said. Pullman car and saloon dining room. A poor lookout for corny, Mr. Power added. Why, Mr. Bloom asked, turning to Mr. Diedelus, wouldn't it be more decent than galloping to a breast? Well, there's something in that, Mr. Diedel has granted. And Martin Cunningham said. We wouldn't have scenes like that when the hearse capsized round Dumfies and upset the coffin onto the road. That was terrible, Mr. Power's shocked face said. And the corpse fell about the road. Terrible. First round Dumfies, Mr. Diedel has said, nodding. Gordon Bennett cup. Brazes beat a god. Martin Cunningham said piously. Bullman upset. The coffin bumped out onto the road, burst open. Paddy Dignam shot out, rolling over, stiff in the dust, in a brown habit too large for him. Red face gray now. Mouth full and open. Asking, what's up now? Quite right to close it. Looks horrid open. Then the insides decompose quickly. Much better to close up all the orifices. Yes, also, with wax. The sphincter loose. Seal up all. Dumfies, Mr. Power announced, as the carriage turned right. Dumfies corner. Morning coaches drawn up, drowning their grief. They're paused by the wayside. Tip top position for a pub. Expect we'll pull up here on the way back to drink his health. Pass round the consolation. Elixir of life. But suppose now it did happen. Would he bleed if a nail, say, cut him in the knocking about? He would, and he wouldn't, I suppose. Depends on where. The circulation stops. Still, some might ooze out of an artery. It would be better to bury them in red. A dark red. In silence they drove along Fibsborough Road. An empty hearse trotted by, coming from the cemetery, looks relieved. Crossgun's bridge, the royal canal. Water rushed, roaring through the sluices. A man stood on his dropping barge, between clamps of turf. On the towpath by the lock, slag-tethered horse, aboard of the bugaboo. Their eyes watched him. On the slow, weedy waterway, he had floated on his raft, coastward, over Ireland, drawn by a haulage rope, past beds of reeds, over slime, mud-choked bottles, carrion dogs. Athlone, Mullingar, Moivalli. I could make a walk-in tour, to see Millie by the canal, or cycle down. Hire some old croc, safety. Ren had one the other day, at the auction, for the ladies. Developing waterways. James McCann's hobby, to roam it or the ferry. Cheaper transit, by easy stages. Houseboats. Camping out. Also herces. To heaven by water. Perhaps I will, without writing. Come as a surprise. Leek slip, Cloncilla, dropping down, lock by lock, to Dublin, with turf from the Midland bogs. Salute! He lifted his brown straw hat, saluting Paddy Dignam. They drove on past Brian Baroo's house. Near it now. I wonder how is our friend Fogarty getting on, Mr. Powers said. Better ask Tom Kernan, Mr. Deedless said. How is that? Martin Cunningham said. Left him weeping, I suppose. Though lost to sight, Mr. Deedless said. To memory dear. The carriage steered left for Finglas Road. The stonecutter's yard on the right. Last lap, crowded on the spit of land, silent shapes appeared. White, sorrowful, holding out calm hands. Nelt in grief, pointing. Fragments of shapes. Hume in white silence. Appealing the best obtainable. Thomas H. Denney, monumental builder and sculptor. Past. On the curb stone, before Jimmy Geary, the sextons, an old tramp sat, grumbling, emptying the dirt and stones out of his huge, dust-brown, yawning boot. After a life's journey. Gloomy gardens then went by. One by one, gloomy houses. Mr. Powers pointed. That is where Charles was murdered, he said. Last house. So it is, Mr. Deedless said. A gruesome case. Seymour Bush got him off. Murdered his brother, or so they said. The crown had no evidence, Mr. Powers said. Only circumstantial, Martin Cunningham said. That's the maxim of the law. Better for ninety-nine guilty to escape, than for one innocent person to be wrongfully condemned. They looked. Murderers' ground. It passed, darkly. Shattered, tenotless, unweeded garden. Whole place gone to hell. Wrongfully condemned. Murder. The murderer's image in the eye of the murdered. I love reading about it. Man's head found in a garden. Her clothing consisted of. How she met her death. Recent outrage. The weapon used. Murderer is still at large. Clues. A shoelace. The body to be exhumed. Murder will out. Cramped in this garage. She might not like me to come that way, without letting her know. Must be careful about women. Catch them once with their pants down. Never forgive you after. Fifteen. The high ratings of prospects rippled past their gaze. Dark poplars. Rare white forms. Forms more frequent. White shapes. Thronged amid the trees. White forms and fragments. Streaming by mutely. Sustaining vain gestures on the air. The faddy harshed against the curb stone. Stopped. While Tink Cunningham put out his arm and wrenching back the handle, shut the door open with his knee. He stepped out. Mr. Power and Mr. Deedless followed. Change that soap now. Mr. Bloom's hand unbuttoned his hip pocket swiftly and transferred the paper-stuck soap to his inner handkerchief pocket. He stepped out of the carriage, replacing the newspaper his other hand still held. Poultry funeral. Coach and three carriages. It's all the same. Paul Bearer's. Gold reigns. Requiem mass. Farring a volley. Pump of death. Behind the hind carriage, a hawker stood by his barrow of cakes and fruit. Simnal cakes, those are. Stuck together. Cakes for the dead. Dog biscuits. Who ate them? Mourners coming out. He followed his companions. Mr. Kernan and Ned Lambert followed. Hines walking after them. Corny Kelleher stood by the opened hearse and took out the two wreaths. He handed one to the boy. Where is that child's funeral disappeared to? The team of horses passed from Finglas with toiling, plodding tread, dragging through the funereal silence a creaking wagon on which lay a granite block. The wagon are marching at their head, saluted. Coffin now. Got here before us. Dead as he is. Horse looking round at it with his plumes skew ways. Darlai. Collar tight on his neck. Pressing on a blood vessel or something. Do they know what they cart out here every day? Must be twenty or thirty funerals every day. Then mount Jerome for the Protestants. Funerals all over the world, everywhere, every minute. Shoveling the Munda by the cartload. Double quick. Thousands every hour. Too many in the world. End of section seven. Section eight of Ulysses. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For further information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Ulysses by James Joyce. Part two, The Odyssey. Episode six, Hades. Part two. Morners came out through the gates. Woman and a girl. Lean, jawed, harpy, hard woman at a bargain. Her bonnet awry. Girl's face stained with dirt and tears. Holding the woman's arm. Looking up at her for a sign to cry. Fish's face bloodless and livid. The mutes shouldered the coffin and bore it in through the gates. So much dead weight. Felt heavier myself stepping out of that bath. First the stiff. First the stiff. Then the friends of the stiff. Corny Kelleher and the boy followed with their wreaths. Who is that beside them? Ah, the brother-in-law. All walked after. Martin Cunningham whispered, I was in mortal agony with you talking of suicide before bloom. What, Mr. Power whispered? How so? His father poisoned himself. Martin Cunningham whispered. Had the Queen's Hotel in Ennis, you heard him say he was going to clear anniversary. Oh, God! Mr. Power whispered. First I heard of it. Poisoned himself? He glanced behind him to wear a face with dark, thinking eyes, followed towards the cardinal's mausoleum. Speaking. What's he insured? Mr. Bloom asked. I believe so, Mr. Cunning answered. But the policy was heavily mortgaged. Martin is trying to get the youngster into our tain. How many children did he leave? Five. Ned Lambert says he'll try to get one of the girls into Todd's. A sad case, Mr. Bloom said gently. Five young children. A great blow to the poor wife, Mr. Cunning added. Indeed, yes, Mr. Bloom agreed. As the laugh at him now. He looked down at the boots he had blacked and polished. She had outlived him, lost her husband. More dead for her than for me. One must outlive the other. Wise men say. There are more women than men in the world. Condol with her. Your terrible loss. I hope you'll soon follow him. For him do widows only. She would marry another. Him? No. Yet who knows after? Widowhood not the thing since the old queen died. Drawn on a gun carriage. Victoria and Albert. Frogmore Memorial morning. But in the end she put a few violets in her bonnet. Vein in her heart of hearts. All for a shadow. Consort not even a king. Her son was the substance. Something new to hope for. Not like the past you wanted back. Waiting. It never comes. One must go first. Alone under the ground. And lie no more in her warm bed. How are you, Simon? Ned Lambert said softly, clasping hands. Haven't seen you for a month of Sundays. Never better. How are all in Cork's own town? I was down there for the Cork Park races on Easter Monday, Ned Lambert said. Same old six and eight pence. Stopped with Dick Tyvee. And how is Dick the solid man? Nothing between himself and Haven, Ned Lambert answered. By the holy paw, Mr. Deedalus said in subdued wonder. Dick Tyvee bawled. Martin is going to get a whip up for the youngsters, Ned Lambert said, pointing ahead. A few bobbers scull, just to keep them going till the insurance is cleared up. Yes, yes, Mr. Deedalus said dubiously. Is that the eldest boy in front? Yes, Ned Lambert said, with the wife's brother. John Henry Menton is behind. He put down his name for a queen. I'll engage he did, Mr. Deedalus said. I often told poor Paddy he ought to mind that job. John Henry is not the worst in the world. How did he lose it? Ned Lambert asked. Liquor? What? Many a good man's fault, Mr. Deedalus said with a sigh. They halted about the door of the mortuary chapel. Mr. Bloom stood behind the boy with the wreath, looking down at his sleek combed hair, and the slender furrowed neck inside its brand new collar. Poor boy! Was he there when the father, both unconscious, lightened up at the last moment and recognised for the last time all he might have done. I owe three shillings to O'Grady. Would he understand? The mutes pour the coffin into the chapel. Which end is his head? After a moment he followed the others in, blinking in the screened light. The coffin lay on its beer before the chancel, four tall yellow candles at its corners, always in front of us. Corny Callagher laying a wreath at each four corner, back unto the boy to kneel. The mourners knelt here and there, in praying desks. Mr. Bloom stood behind near the font, and when all had knelt, dropped carefully his unfolded newspaper from his pocket, and knelt his right knee upon it. He fitted his black hat gently on his left knee, and holding its brim bent over piously. A server bearing a brass bucket with something in it came out through a door. The white-smocked priest came after him, tidying his stole with one hand, balancing with the other a little book against his toad's belly. Who'll read the book? I said the rook. They halted by the beer, and the priest began to read out of his book with a fluent croak. Father Coffey, I knew his name was like Coffin, Domine Naminé, bully about the muzzle he looks, boss is the show, muscular Christian, woby-tired anyone that looks crooked at him, priest. Thou art Peter, Burst sideways like a sheep in clover, Deedalus says he will, with a belly on him like a poisoned pup. Most amusing expressions that man finds. Burst sideways. Makes them feel more important to be prayed over in Latin. Requiem mass, crepe weepers, black-edged note paper, your name on the altar list. Chilly place this. Want to feed well, sitting in there all the morning in the gloom, kicking his heels, waiting for the next, please. Eyes of a toad, too. What swells him up that way? Molly gets swelled after cabbage. Air of the place, maybe. Looks full of bad gas. Must be an infernal lot of bad gas round the place. Butchers, for instance. They get like raw beef steaks. Who was telling me? Mervyn Brown. Down in the vaults of St. Werberg's, lovely old organ, 150, they have to bore a hole in the coffin sometimes to let out the bad gas and burn it. Out it rushes, blue. One whiff of that, and you're a goner. My kneecap is hurting me. Ow! That's better. The priest took a stick with a knob at the end of it, out of the boy's bucket, and shook it over the coffin. Then he walked to the other end, and shook it again. Then he came back and put it in the bucket. As you were before you rested, it's all written down. He has to do it. Etne no sindukas intentati onem. The server piped the answers in the treble. I often thought it would be better to have boy servants, up to fifteen or so, after that, of course. Holy water that was, I expect, shaking the sleep out of it. He must be fed up with that job, shaking that thing over all the corpses they trot up. What harm if he could see what he was shaking it over. Every mortal day a fresh batch. Middle-aged men, old women, children, women dead in childbirth, men with beards, bald-headed businessmen, consumptive girls with little sparrows' breasts. All the year round he prayed the same thing over them all, and shook water on top of them. Sleep. On dignum now. In paradisum. Said he was going to paradise, or is in paradise. Says that over everybody. Tarsome kind of a job, but he has to say something. The priest closed his book and went off, followed by the server. Cornie Kelleher opened the side doors, and the gravediggers came in, hoisted the coffin again, carried it out, and shoved it on their cart. Cornie Kelleher gave one wreath to the boy, and one to the brother-in-law. All followed them out of the side doors, into the mild gray air. Mr. Bloom came last, folding his paper again into his pocket. He gazed gravely at the ground, till a coffin-cart wheeled off to the left. The metal wheels ground the gravel with a sharp, grating cry, and the pack of blunt boots followed the barrow along a lane of sepulchres. The rea, the ra, the rea, the ra, the roue. Lord, I mustn't lilt here. The O'Connell circle, Mr. Deedless said about him. Mr. Power's soft eyes went up to the apex of the lofty cone. He's at rest, he said, in the middle of his people. Old Dano. But his heart is buried in Rome. How many broken hearts are buried here, Simon? Her grave is over there, Jack, Mr. Deedless said. I'll soon be stretched beside her. Let him take me whenever he likes. Breaking down, he began to weep to himself quietly, stumbling a little in his walk. Mr. Power took his arm. She's better where she is, he said kindly. I suppose so, Mr. Deedless said with a weak gasp. I suppose she is in heaven, if there is a heaven. Cornicala stepped aside from his rank and allowed the mourners to plod by. Sad occasions, Mr. Kernan began politely. Mr. Bloom closed his eyes and sadly twice bowed his head. The others are putting on their hats, Mr. Kernan said. I suppose we can do so too. We are the last. This cemetery is a treacherous place. They covered their heads. The reverent gentleman read the service too quickly, don't you think, Mr. Kernan said, with reproof. Mr. Bloom nodded, bravely, looking in the quick bloodshot eyes. Secret eyes, secret searching eyes. Mason, I think. Not sure. Beside him again, we are the last. In the same boat. Hope he'll say something else. Mr. Kernan added, The service of the Irish church used in Mount Jerome is simpler, more impressive, I must say. Mr. Bloom gave prudent assent. The language, of course, was another thing. Mr. Kernan said with solemnity. I am the resurrection and the life. That touches a man's inmost heart. It does, Mr. Bloom said. Your heart, perhaps. But what priced the fellow in the six feet by two with his toes to the daisies? No touching that. Seat of the affections. Broken heart. A pump, after all. Pumping thousands of gallons of blood every day. One fine day it gets bunged up. And there you are. Lots of them lying around here. Lungs, hearts, livers. Old rusty pumps. Damn the thing else. The resurrection and the life. Once you were dead, you were dead. That last day idea. Knocking them all up out of their graves. Come forth, Lazarus. And he came fifth and lost the job. Get up, last day. Then every fellow mousing around for his liver and his lights and the rest of his traps. Fine dam all of himself that morning. Pennyweight of powder in a skull. 12 grams, one pennyweight. Troy measure. Corny Kelleher fell into step at their side. Everything went off A1, he said. What? He looked on them from his drawing eye. Policeman's shoulders. With your turulum, turulum. As it should be, Mr. Kernan said. What? A? Corny Kelleher said. Mr. Kernan assured him. Who is that chap behind with Tom Kernan? John Henry Menton asked. I know his face. Ned Lambert glanced back. Bloom, he said. Madam Marion Tweedy, that was, is, I mean, the soprano. She's his wife. Oh, to be sure, John Henry Menton said. I haven't seen her for some time. She was a fine-looking woman. I danced with her. Wait! Fifteen, seventeen, golden years ago, at Mac Dillon's in Roundtown, and a good arm for she was. He looked behind through the others. What is he? He asked. What does he do? Wasn't he in the stationery line? I fell foul of him one evening, I remember, at Bowles. Ned Lambert smiled. Yes, he was, he said, in Wisdom Healy's, a traveller for blotting paper. God's name! John Henry Menton said. What did she marry a coon like that for? She had plenty of game in her then. As still, Ned Lambert said. He does some canvassing for ads. John Henry Menton's large eyes stared ahead. The barrow turned into a side lane. A portly man, ambushed among the grasses, raised his head in homage. The gravediggers touched their caps. John O'Connell, Mr. Power said, pleased. He never forgets a friend. Mr. O'Connell shook all their hands in silence. Mr. Deedless said, I'm come to pay you another visit. My dear Simon, the caretaker answered in a low voice. I don't want your custom at all. Saluting Ned Lambert and John Henry Menton, he walked on at Martin Cunningham's side, puzzling two keys at his back. Did you hear that one? He asked them, about Malkahi from Coombe. I did not, Martin Cunningham said. They bent their silk hats in concert, and hines inclined his ear. The caretaker hung his thumbs in the loops of his gold watch chain and spoke in a discreet tone to their vacant smiles. They tell the story, he said, that two drunks came out here one foggy evening to look for the grave of a friend of theirs. They asked for Malkahi from the Coombe, and were told where he was buried. After traipsing about in the fog, they found the grave, sure enough. One of the drunks spelt out the name, Terence Malkahi. The other drunk was blinking up at a statue of our saviour the widow had got put up. The caretaker blinked up at one of the sepulchres they passed. He resumed, and after blinking up at the sacred figure, not a bloody bit like the man, says he, that's not Malkahi, says he, whoever done it. Rewarded by smiles, he fell back and spoke with Corny Kelleher, accepting the dockets given him, turning them over and scanning them as he walked. That's all done with a purpose, Martin Cunningham explained to Heinz. I know, Heinz said, I know that. To cheer a fellow up, Martin Cunningham said, it's pure good-heartedness, damn the thing else. Mr. Bloom admired the caretaker's prosperous bulk. All want to be on good terms with him. Decent fellow, John O'Connell, real good sort. Keys, like keys, add. No fears of anyone getting out. No pass-out checks. Habiette Corpus. I must see about that, add, after the funeral. Did I write Ball's Bridge on the envelope I took to cover when she disturbed me right into Martha? Hope it's not chucked in the dead letter office. Be better of a shave. Grey, sprouting beard. That's the first sign when the hairs come out grey and temper getting cross. Silver threads among the grey. Hence he being his wife. Wonder how he had the gumption to propose to any girl. Come out and live in the graveyard. Dangle that before her. You might thrill her first. Caughting death. Shades of night hovering here with all the dead stretched about. The shadows of the tombs when church yards yawn. And Daniel O'Connell must be a descendant, I suppose. Who is this? Used to say he was queer, breedy man. Great Catholic, all the same. Like a big giant in the dark. Willow the wisp. Gas of graves. Want to keep her mind off it to conceive at all. Women especially are so touchy. Tell her a ghost story in bed to make her sleep. Have you ever seen a ghost? Well I have. It was a pitch dark night. The clock was on the stroke of twelve. Still they'd kiss all right if properly keyed up. Hoors in Turkish graveyards. Learn anything if taken young. You might pick up a young widow here. Men like that. Love among the tombstones. Romeo. Spice of pleasure. In the midst of death we are in life. Both ends meet. Tantalising for the poor dead. Smell of grilled beef-states to the starving, gnawing their vitals. Desire to grig people. Molly wanting to do it at the window. Eight children he has anyway. He has seen a fair share go under in his time. Lying around him field after field. Holy fields. More room if they buried them standing up. Sitting or kneeling you couldn't. Standing? His head might come up some day above ground in a landslip with his hand pointing. All honeycomb the ground must be. Oblong cells. And very neat he keeps it too. Trim grass and edgings. His garden. Major Gamble calls Mount Jerome. Well so it is. Or to be flowers of sleep. Chinese cemeteries with giant poppies growing. Produce the best opium. Mastiansky told me. The botanic gardens are just over there. It's the blood sinking in the earth gives new life. Same idea those Jews they said killed the Christian boy. Every man has his price. Well preserved fat corpse. Gentleman. Epicure. Invaluable for a fruit garden. A bargain. By carcass of William Wilkinson. Auditor and accountant. Lately deceased. Three pounds thirteen and six. With thanks. I dare say the soil will be quite fat with corpse manure. Bones. Flesh. Nails. Charnel houses. Dreadful. Turning green and pink. Decomposing. Rock quake in damp earth. The lean old ones tougher. Then a kind of tallowy. Kind of a cheesy. Then begin to get black. Treacle oozing out of them. Then dried up. Death moths. Of course the cells or whatever they are. Go on living. Changing about. Live forever practically. Nothing to feed on. Feed on themselves. But they must breed a devil of a lot of maggots. So I must be simply swirling with them. Your head it simply swirls. Those pretty little seaside girls. He looks cheerful enough over it. Give him a sense of power. Seeing all the others go under first. Wonder how he looks at life. Cracking his jokes too. Warms the cockles of his heart. The one about the bulletin. Spurgeon went to heaven 4 a.m. this morning. 11 p.m. closing time. Not arrived yet. Peter. The dead themselves. The men anyhow. Would like to hear an odd joke. Or the women to know what's in fashion. A juicy pear or lady's punch. Hot. Strong and sweet. Keep out the damp. You must laugh sometimes. So better do it that way. Gravediggers in Hamlet. Shows the profound knowledge of the human heart. Dent joke about the dead for two years at least. De mortuis nil nisi prius. Go out of mourning first. Hard to imagine his funeral. Seems a sort of a joke. Read your own obituary notice. They say you live longer. Gives you second wind. New lease of life. How many have you for tomorrow? The caretaker asked. Two. Corny Keller has said. Half ten and eleven. The caretaker put the papers in his pocket. The burrow had ceased to trundle. The mourners split and moved to each side of the hole, stepping with care round the graves. The gravediggers bore the coffin and set its nose on the brink, looping the bands round it. Burying him. We come to bury Caesar. His eyes of March or June. He doesn't know who is here, nor care. Now, who is that lanky-looking galoot over there in the Macintosh? Now, who is he I'd like to know? Now, I'd give a trifle to know who he is. Always someone turns up you never dreamt of. A fellow could live on his lonesome all his life. Yes, he could. Still, he'd have to get someone to sod him after he died, though he could dig his own grave. We all do. Only man buries. No, ants too. First thing strikes anybody. Bury the dead. Say, Robinson Crusoe was true to life. Well then, Friday buried him. Every Friday buries a Thursday, if you come to look at it. Oh, poor Robinson Crusoe, how could you possibly do so? Poor Dignam. His last lie on earth in his box. When you think of the mould, it does seem a waste of wood. All gnawed through. They could invent a handsome beer with a kind of panel sliding. Let it down that way. Aye, but they might object to be buried out of another fellow's. They're so particular. Lay me in my native earth. Bit of clay from the Holy Land. Only a mother and a dead-born child ever buried in the one coffin. I see what it means. I see. To protect him as long as possible, even in the earth. The Irishman's house is his coffin. Embarming in catacombs. Mummies. The same idea. Mr. Bloom stood far back. His hat in his hand. Counting the bed-heads. Twelve. I'm thirteen. No. The chap in the Macintosh is thirteen. Death's number. Where the juice did he pop out of? He wasn't in the chapel, that I'll swear. Silly superstition that. About thirteen. Nice soft tweed Ned Lambert has in that suit. Tinge of purple. I'd one like that when we lived in Lombard Street West. Dressy fellow he was once. Used to change three suits in the day. Must get that grey suit of mine turned by Messiah's. Hello. It's died. His wife. I forgot. He's not married. Or his landlady ought to have picked out those threads for him. The coffin died out of sight. Eased down by the men straddled on the grave trestles. They struggled up and out. And all uncovered. Twenty. Pause. If we were all suddenly somebody else. Far away a donkey braid. Rain. No such ass. Never see a dead one, they say. Shame of death. They hide. Also poor papa went away. Gentle sweet air blew round the bed heads in a whisper. Whisper. The boy by the grave-head held his wreath with both hands, staring quietly in the black open space. Mr Bloom moved behind the portly, kindly caretaker. Well cut frock coat. Weighing them up perhaps to see which will go next. Well it is a long rest. Feel no more. It's the moment you feel. Must be damned unpleasant. Can't believe it at first. Mistake must be. Someone else. Try the house opposite. Wait. I wanted to. I haven't yet. Then the darkened death chamber. Light they want. Whispering around you. Would you like to see a priest? Then rambling and wandering. Delirium all you hid, all your life. The death struggle. His sleep is not natural. Press the lower eyelid. Watching is his nose pointed. Is his jaw sinking? Are the soles of his feet yellow? Pull the pillow away and finish it off on the floor, since he's doomed. Devil in that picture of sinner's death. Showing him a woman. Dying to embrace her in his shirt. Last act of Lucia. Shall I never more behold thee? Bam. Expires. Gone at last. People talk about you a bit. Forget you. Don't forget to pray for him. Remember him in your prayers. Even Parnell. Ivy Day dying out. Then they follow. Dropping into a hole, one after the other. We are praying now for the repose of his soul. Hoping you're well and not in hell. Nice change of air. Out of the frying pan of life. Into the fire of purgatory. Does he ever think of the hole waiting for himself? They say you do when you shiver in the sun. Someone walking over it. Call boys warning. Near you. Mine over there towards thin glass. The plot I bought. Mama, poor mama. And little Rudy. The gravediggers took up their spades and flung heavy clods of clay in on the coffin. Mr. Bloom turned his face. And if he was alive all the time. Hoo! By Jingo. That would be awful. No, no. He is dead, of course. Of course he is dead. Monday he died. They ought to have some law to pierce the heart and make sure or an electric clock or a telephone in the coffin and some kind of canvas air-hole. Flag of distress. Three days. Rather long to keep them in summer. Just as well to get shut of them as soon as you are sure there's no— the clay fell softer. Begin to be forgotten. Out of sight. Out of mind. The caretaker moved away a few paces and put on his hat. Had enough of it. The mourners took heart of grace, one by one, covering themselves without show. Mr. Bloom put on his hat and saw the portly figure make its way deftly through the maze of graves. Quietly, sure of his ground, he traversed the dismal fields. Heinz jotting down something in his notebook. Ah, the names. But he knows them all. No, coming to me. I'm just taking the names, Heinz said, below his breath. What is your Christian name? I'm not sure. Elle, Mr. Bloom said, Leopold. And you might put down McCoy's name too. He asked me to. Charlie, Heinz said, writing. I know. He was on the Freeman once. So he was before he got his job in the morgue under Louis Bourne. Good idea, a postmortem for doctors. Find out what they imagine they know. He died of a Tuesday, got the run. Divanted with the cash of a few ads. Charlie, you're my darling. That was why he asked me to. Oh, well, there's no harm. I saw to that McCoy. Thanks, old chap. Much obliged. Leave him under an obligation. Costs nothing. And tell us, Heinz said. Do you know that fellow in the— fellow was over there in the— He looked round. Macintosh. Yes, I saw him, Mr. Bloom said. Where is he now? Macintosh, Heinz said, scribbling. I don't know who he is. Is that his name? He moved away, looking about him. No, Mr. Bloom began, turning round. I say, Heinz. Didn't hear. What? Where has he disappeared to? Not a sign. Well, of all that, has anybody here seen? K.E. double L. Become invisible. Good Lord, what became of him? A seventh gravedigger came beside Mr. Bloom to take up an idle spade. Oh, excuse me. He stepped aside, nimbly. Clay, brown, damp, began to be seen in the hole. It rose. Nearly over. A mound of damp clods rose more, rose, and the gravediggers rested their spades. All uncovered again for a few instance. The boy propped his wreath against a corner. The brother-in-law hissed on a lump. The gravediggers put on their caps and carried their earthy spades towards the barrow. They knocked the blades lightly on the turf, clean. One bent to pluck from the half the long tuft of grass. One, leaving his mates, walked slowly on with the shouldered weapon. Its blade blew glancing. Silently at the grave-head another coiled the coffin-band, his navel called. The brother-in-law, turning away, placed something in his free hand. Thanks in silence. Sorry, sir. Trouble. Head shake. I know that. For yourselves just. The mourners moved away slowly, with our tame, by devious paths, staying a while to read a name on a tomb. Let us go round by the chief's grave, Heinz said. We have time. Let us, Mr. Power said. They turned to the right, following their slow thoughts. With awe Mr. Power's blank voice spoke. Some say he's not in that grave at all, that the coffin was filled with stones, that one day he will come again. Heinz shook his head. Parnell will never come again, he said. He's there. All that was mortal of him. Peace to his ashes. Mr. Bloom walked unheeded along his grove, by saddened angels, crosses, broken pillars, family vaults, stone hopes, praying with upcast eyes, old islands, hearts and hands. More sensible to spend the money on some charity for the living. Pray for the repose of the soul of—does anybody, really? Plant him and have done with him. Light down a coal-shoot. Then lump them together to save time. All soul's day. Twenty-seventh I'll bear his grave. Ten chillings for the gardener. He keeps it free of weeds. Old man himself bent down double with his shears, clipping near death's door, who passed away, who departed this life. As if they did it of their own accord. Got the shove, all of them, who kicked the bucket. More interesting if they told you what they were. So-and-so, we'll write. I travelled for Cork-Lino. I paid five shillings in a pound, or a woman's with her saucepan. I cooked good Irish stew. Eulogy in a country churchyard it ought to be. That poem of—whose is it? Wordsworth or Thomas Campbell? Entered into rest, the Protestants put it, Old Dr. Murrins. The great physician called him home. Well, it's God's acre for them. Nice country residence. Newly plastered and painted. Ideal spot to have a quiet smoke and read the church times. Marriage-ads, they never try to beautify. Rusty wreaths, hung on knobs. Garlands of bronze foil. Better value that for the money. Still, the flowers are more poetical. The other gets rather tiresome, never withering. Express is nothing, immortelle. A bird sat tamely perched on a poplar branch, like stuffed. Like the wedding present Auderman Hooper gave us. Not a budge out of him. Knows there are no catapults to let fly at him. Dead animal, even sadder. Silly milly, burying the little dead bird in the kitchen matchbox. Daisy-chain and bits of broken chainies on the grave. The sacred heart, that is, showing it. Heart on his sleeve. Or to be sideways and red it should be painted like a real heart. Ireland was dedicated to it, or whatever that. Seems anything but pleased. Why, this inflection, would birds come then and peck, like the boy with a basket of fruit. But he said no, because they ought to have been afraid of the boy. Apollo, that was. How many. All these here once walked round doubling. Faithful departed. As you are now, so once were we. Besides, how could you remember everybody? Eyes, walk, voice. Well, a voice, yes. Gramophone. Have a gramophone in every grave, or keep it in the house. After dinner on a Sunday. Put on poor old great-grandfather. Hello, hello, hello. I'm awfully glad. Awfully glad to see you again. Hello, hello. I'm awfully— Remind you of the voice, like the photograph, reminds you of the face. Otherwise you couldn't remember the face after fifteen years, say? For instance, who? For instance, some fellow that died when I was in Wisdom Heelys. A rattle of pebbles. Wait, stop. He looked down intently into a stone crypt. Some animal. Wait, there he goes. An obese grey rat, toddled along the side of the crypt, moving the pebbles. An old stager. Great-grandfather. He knows the ropes. The grey alive crushed itself in under the plinth, wriggled itself in under it. Good hiding place for treasure. Who lives there? I laid the remains of Robert Emery. Robert Emmett was buried here by torchlight, wasn't he? Making his rounds. Tail gone now. One of those jacks would make short work of a fellow. Pick the bones clean, no matter who it was. Ordinary meat for them. A corpse's meat gone bad. Well, and what's cheese? Corpse of milk. A red in that voyages in China, that the Chinese say a white man smells like a corpse. Cremation better. Priests dead against it. Deviling for the other firm. Wholesale burners and Dutch oven dealers. Time of the plague. Quick-line fever pits to eat them. Lethal chamber. Ashes to ashes. Or peri at sea. Where is that parsi tower of silence? Eating by birds. Earth. Fire. Water. Drowning, they say, is the pleasantest. See your whole life in a flash. But being brought back to life, no. Can't bury in the air, however, out of a flying machine. Wonder, does the news go about whenever a fresh one is let down? Underground communication. We learnt that from them. Wouldn't be surprised. Regular square feed for them. Flies come before he's well dead. Got wind of dignum. They wouldn't care about the smell of it. Salt-white crumbling mush of corpse. Smell, taste, like raw white turnips. The gates glimmered in front. Still open. Back to the world again. Enough of this place. Brings you a bit nearer every time. Last time I was here was Mrs. Cynico's funeral. Poor papar too. The love that kills. And even scraping up the earth at night with a lantern like that case I read of to get at fresh, buried females, or even putrified with running grave sores. Give you the creeps after a bit. I will appear to you after death. You will see my ghost after death. My ghost will haunt you after death. There is another world after death named Hell. I do not like that other world, she wrote. No more do I. Plenty to see and hear and feel yet. Feel live warm beings near you. Let them sleep in their maggoty beds. They're not going to get me this innings. Warm beds. Warm, full-blooded life. Martin Cunningham emerged from a side path, talking gravely. Solicitor, I think. I know his face. Menton. John Henry. Solicitor. Commissioner for oaths and affidavits. Dignam used to be in his office. Matt Dillon's long ago. Jolly Matt. Convivial evenings. Cold foul. Cigars. The tantalus glasses. Heart of gold, really. Yes. Menton. Got his rag out that evening on the bowling green because I sailed inside him. Pure fluke of mine. The bias. Why, he took such a rooted dislike to me. Hate at first sight. Molly and Flowey Dillon linked under the lilac tree, laughing. Fellow always liked that. Mortified if women abide. Got a ding in the side of his hat. Carriage, probably. Excuse me, sir. Mr Bloom said beside them. They stopped. Your hat is a little crushed, Mr Bloom said, pointing. John Henry Menton stared at him for an instant without moving. There, Martin Cunningham helped, pointing also. John Henry Menton took off his hat, bulged out the ding, and smoothed the nap with care on his code-slave. He clapped the hat on his head again. It's all right now, Martin Cunningham said. John Henry Menton jerked his head down in acknowledgement. Thank you, he said shortly. They walked on towards the gates. Mr Bloom, chapped fallen, drew behind a few paces so as not to overhear. Martin lain down the law. Martin could wind a sappy headlight that round his little finger without his seeing it. Oyster eyes. Never mind. Be sorry after, perhaps when it dawns on him. Get the pull over him that way. Thank you, how grand we are this morning. And of Section 8. Section 9 of Ulysses This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For further information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Ulysses by James Joyce Part 2, The Odyssey Episode 7 Ulysses, Part 1 In the heart of the Hibernian Metropolis Before Nelson's pillar, Tram slowed, shunted, changed trolley, started for Black Rock, Kingstown and Dalky, Clones Kear, Rathgar and Terenua, Palmerston Park and Upper Rathmines, Sandymount Green, Rathmines, Ringsend and Sandymount Tower, Harold's Cross, The Horse Dublin United Tramway Company's Timekeeper, Bald them off, Rathgar and Terenua, come on Sandymount Green, right and left, parallel, clanging, ringing, a double decker and a single decker moved from their railheads, swerved to the downline, glided parallel, start Palmerston Park, the wearer of the crown. Under the porch of the general post office, Shublax called and polished, parked in North Prince's Street, his majesties for million mail cars, bearing on their sides the royal initials, ER, received loudly flung sacks of letters, postcards, letter cards, parcels, insured and paid for local, provincial, British and overseas delivery, gentlemen of the press. Gross booted Dremen rolled barrels dull-thudding out of Prince's Stores and bumped them up on the brewery float. On the brewery float, bumped dull-thudding barrels rolled by gross booted Dremen out of Prince's Stores. There it is, read Murray said, Alexander Keys. Just cut it out will you, Mr Bloom said, and I'll take it round to the telegraph office. The door of Rutledge's office creaked again, David Stevens, minute in a large cape coat, a small felt hat crowning his ringlets, passed out with a roll of papers under his cape, a king's courier. Red Murray's long shears sliced out the advertisement from the newspaper in four clean strokes, scissors and paste. I'll go through the printing works, Mr Bloom said, taking the cut square. Of course, if he wants a pa, read Murray said, earnestly, a pen behind his ear, we can do him one. Right, Mr Bloom said with a nod, I'll rub that in. Wee. William Braden, Esquire of Oakland's Sandymount. Red Murray touched Mr Bloom's arm with the shears and whispered, Braden. Mr Bloom turned and saw the livery porter raise his lettered cap as a stately figure entered between the news boards of the Weekly Freeman and National Press, and the Freeman's Journal and National Press. Dull-thudding Guinness's barrels. It passed stately up the staircase steered by an umbrella, a solemn, beard-framed face. The broadcloth back ascended each step, back. All his brains are in the nape of his neck, Simon Dieterlis says, welts of flesh behind on him, fat folds of neck, fat, neck, fat, neck. Don't you think his face is like our Saviour, read Murray whispered? The door of Rutledge's office whispered, ee, ee. They always build one door opposite another for the wind to, way in, way out. Our Saviour, beard-framed oval face, talking in the dusk, Mary, Martha, steered by an umbrella soared to the footlights, Mario, the tenor. All like Mario, Mr Bloom said. Yes, read Murray agreed, but Mario was said to be the picture of our Saviour. Jesus Mario with rougie cheeks, doublet and spindle legs, hand on his heart in Martha. Come, thou lost one, come, thou dear one. The crozier and the pen. His grace phoned down twice this morning, read Murray said gravely. They watched the knees, legs, boots, vanish, neck. A telegram boy stepped in nimbly, threw an envelope on the counter, and stepped off post-haste with a word, Freeman! Mr Bloom said slowly. Well, he is one of our Saviours also. A meek smile accompanied him as he lifted the counter-flat, as he passed in through the side door and along the warm dark stairs and passage, along the now reverberating boards. But will he save the circulation? Thumping, thumping. He pushed in the glass swing door and entered, stepping over strewn packing paper. Through a lane of clanking drums, he made his way towards Nanetti's reading closet. With unfaithful regret it is we announce the dissolution of a most respected Dublin Burgess. Hines here, too. Account of the funeral, probably. Thumping, thump. This morning the remains of the late Mr Patrick Dignam. Machines. Smash a man to atoms if they got him caught. Rule the world today. His machinery's a pegging away, too. Like these, got out of hand. Fermenting. Working away. Tearing away. And that old grey rat tearing to get in. How a great daily organ is turned out. Mr Bloom halted behind the foreman's spare body, admiring a glossy crown. Strange he never saw his real country. Ireland, my country. Member for College Green. He boomed that worker-day-worker tack for all it was worth. It's the ads and side features seller-weekly, not the stale news in the official Gazette. Queen Anne is dead. Published by authority in the year 1000 and. Demine, situate in the town-land of Rosenalis. Barony of Tinnachinch. To all whom it may concern. Schedule pursuant to statute. Showing return of number of mules and genets exported from Balina. Nature notes. Cartoons. Phil Blake's weekly pattern ball story. Uncle Toby's page for tiny tots. Country bumpkins. Queries. Dear Mr Editor, what is a good cure for flatulence? I'd like that part. Learn a lot teaching others. The personal note. M-A-P. Mainly all pictures. Shapely bathers on golden strand. World's biggest balloon. Double marriage of sisters celebrated. Two bridegrooms laughing heartily at each other. Kuprani, too. Printer. More Irish than the Irish. The machines clanked in three, four time. Thump, thump, thump. Now, if he got paralyzed there and no one knew how to stop them, they'd clank on and on the same. Printed over and over and up and back. Monkey-doodle, the whole thing. Want a cool head? Well, get it to the evening edition, councillor, Heinz said. Soon be calling him my Lord Mayor. Long John is backing him, they say. The foreman, without answering, scribbled press on a corner of the sheet and made a sign to a typesetter. He handed the sheet silently over the dirty glass screen. Right, thanks, Heinz said, moving off. Mr. Bloom stood in his way. If you want to draw, the cashier is just going to lunch, he said, pointing backward with his thumb. Did you, Heinz asked? Mr. Bloom said, Look sharp and you'll catch him. Thanks, old man, Heinz said. I'll tap him, too. He hurried on eagerly towards the Freeman's journal. Three bobber lent him in meagres. Three weeks, third hint. We see the canvasser at work. Mr. Bloom laid his cutting on Mr. Nanetti's desk. Excuse me, councillor, he said. This ad, you see. Keys, you remember? Mr. Nanetti considered the cutting a while and nodded. He wants it in for July, Mr. Bloom said. He doesn't hear it. Nannan, iron nerves. The foreman moved his pencil towards it. But wait, Mr. Bloom said. He wants it changed. Keys, you see. He wants two keys at the top. Hell of a racket they make. Maybe he understands what I— The foreman turned round to hear patiently, and lifting an elbow began to scratch slowly in the armpit of his alpaca jacket. Like that, Mr. Bloom said, crossing his forefingers at the top. Let him take that in first. Mr. Bloom, glancing sideways up from the cross he had made, saw the foreman's sallow face. Think he has a touch of jaundice, and beyond the obedient reels feeding in huge webs of paper, clank it, clank it, miles of it unreeled. What becomes of it after? Oh, wrap-up meat, parcels, various uses, thousand and one things. Slipping his words deftly into the pauses of the clanking, he drew swiftly on the scarred woodwork. House of keys. Like that, see? Two crossed keys here, a circle, then hear the name Alexander Keyes, tea, wine, and spirit merchant, so on. Better not teach him his own business. You know yourself, counsellor, just what he wants. Then round the top in leaded, the house of keys. You see? Do you think that's a good idea? The foreman moved his scratching hand to his lower ribs, and scratched there quietly. The idea, Mr Bloom said, this is the house of keys. You know, counsellor, the Manx Parliament. Innuendo of home rule. Tourists, you know, from the Isle of Man, catches the eye, you see. Can you do that? I could ask him perhaps about how to pronounce that, volio. But then, if he didn't know, only make it awkward for him. Better not. We can do that, the foreman said. Have you the design? I can get it, Mr Bloom said. It was in a Kilkenny paper. He has a house there, too. I'll just run out and ask him. Well, you can do that, and just a little par calling attention. You know the usual. High class licensed premises. Long felt want. So on. The foreman thought for an instant. We can do that, he said. Let him give us a three-month renewal. The typesetter brought him a limp galley page. He began to check it silently. Mr Bloom stood by, hearing the loud throbs of cranks, watching the silent typesetters at their cases. Want to be sure of his spelling? Proof fever. Martin Cunningham forgot to give us his spelling-beak and undrum this morning. It is amusing to view the unpar one R, allowed in Barra. Two R's, is it? Double S, mint of a harassed peddler, while gauging AU, the symmetry of a peeled pair under a cemetery wall. Silly, isn't it? Cemetery, put in, of course, on account of the symmetry. I could have said, when he clapped on his topper. Thank you. I ought to have said something about an old hat or something. No, I could have said. Looks as good as new now. See his fees then. St. The nethermost deck of the first machine jogged forwards in its flyboard with St. The first batch of choir-folded papers. St. Almost human, the way it, St. To call attention, doing its level best to speak. That door too, St. Creaking, asking to be shut. Everything speaks in its own way. St. Noted churchmen, an occasional contributor. The foreman handed back the galley page, suddenly, saying, Wait, where's the Archbishop's letter? Is to be repeated in the telegraph. Where's what's his name? He looked about him, round his loud, unanswering machines. Monks, sir? The voice asked, from the casting box. Aye, where's Monks? Monks! Mr. Bloom took up his cutting. Time to get out. Then I'll get the design, Mr. Nannetti, he said. And you'll give it a good place, I know. Monks! Yes, sir? Three months renewal. Want to get some wind off my chest first? Try it anyhow. Rub in August. Good idea. Horse show month. Ballsbridge. Tourists over for the show. A dayfather. He walked on through the case room, passing an old man, bowed, spectacled, aproned. Old Monks, the dayfather. Queer lot of stuff he must have put through his hands in his time. Obituary notices. Pub's ads. Speeches. Divorce suits. Found drowned. Nearing the end of his tether now, sober, serious man, with a bit in the savings bank, I'd say. Wife a good cook and washer. Daughter working the machine in the parlour. Plain Jane. No damn nonsense. And it was the feast of the pass-over. He stayed in his walk to watch a typesetter, neatly distributing type. Reads it backwards first. Quickly he does it. Must require some practice that. Mangid. Katsirtap. Poor papar with his Haggadah book. Reading backwards with his finger to me. Pesach. Next year in Jerusalem. Dear old dear. All that long business about that brought us out of the land of Egypt and into the house of bondage. Alleluia. Shema is a role el idon nai elohenu. No, that's the other. Then the twelve brothers, Jacob's sons. And then the lamb and the cat and the dog and the stick and the water and the butcher and then the angel of death kills the butcher and he kills the ox and the dog kills the cat. Sounds a bit silly till you come to look into it well. Justice it means, but it's everybody eating everyone else. That's what life is after all. How quickly he does that job. Practice makes perfect. Seems to see with his fingers. Mr Bloom passed on out of the clanking noises through the gallery onto the landing. Now am I going to tram it out all the way and then catch him out perhaps? Better phone him up first. Number? Same as Citron's house. Twenty-eight. Twenty-eight double four. Only once more that soap. He went down the house staircase. Who the juice scrawled all over these walls with matches? Looks as if they did it for a bet. Heavy greasy smell there always is in those works. Lukewarm glue in Tom's next door when I was there. He took out his handkerchief to dab his nose. Citron lemon. Ah the soap I put there. Lose it out of that pocket. Putting back his handkerchief. He took out the soap and stowed it away, buttoned into the hip pocket of his trousers. What perfume does your wife use? I could go home still. Tram. Something I forgot. Just to see before dressing. No. Here. No. A sudden screech of laughter came from the evening telegraph office. Know who that is? What's up? Pop in a minute to phone. Ned Lambert it is. He entered softly. Erin, green gem of the Silver Sea. The ghost walks, Professor McHugh murmured softly, biscuitfully, to the dusty window pane. Mr. Deedalus, staring from the empty fireplace at Ned Lambert's quizzing face, asked of it sourly, agonising Christ, wouldn't it give you a heartburn on your arse? Ned Lambert seated on the table, red on. Or again, note the meanderings of some pearling rill as it babbles on its way, fanned by gentlest zephas, though quarreling with the stony obstacles to the tumbling waters of Neptune's blue domain, mid mossy banks, played on by the glorious sunlight, or neath the shadows cast o'er its pensive bosom by the overarching leafage of the giants of the forest. What about that, Simon? He asked over the fringe of his newspaper. How's that for high? Changing his drink, Mr. Deedalus said. Ned Lambert, laughing, struck the newspaper on his knees, repeating the pensive bosom and the overrassing leafage. Oh, boys! Oh, boys! And Xenophon looked upon Marathon, Mr. Deedalus said, looking again on the fireplace and to the window, and Marathon looked on the sea. That will do, Professor McHugh cried from the window. I don't want to hear any more of the stuff. He ate off the crescent of water biscuit he had been nibbling, and, hungered, made ready to nibble the biscuit in his other hand. I, for looting stuff, bladder bags. Ned Lambert is taking the day off, I see. Rather upsets a man's day, a funeral does. He has influence, they say. Old Chatterton, the vice-chancellor, is his grand-uncle, or his great-granduncle. Close on ninety, they say. Sub-leader for his death, written this long time, perhaps. Living to spite them, might go first himself. Johnny, make way for your uncle. The right honourable hedges ere Chatterton. Dears say he writes him an odd shaky check or two on gale days. Win for when he kicks out. Alleluia! Just another spasm, Ned Lambert said. What is it, Mr. Blum asked? A recently discovered fragment of Cicero's, Professor McHugh answered, with pomp of tone, our lovely land. Short, but to the point. Whose land, Mr. Blum said simply. Most pertinent question, the Professor said between his Jews, with an accent on the whose. Dan Dawson's land, Mr. Deedless said. Is it his speech last night, Mr. Blum asked? Ned Lambert nodded. But listen to this, he said. The doorknob hit Mr. Blum in the small of the back, as the door was pushed in. Excuse me, JJ O'Malloy said, entering. Mr. Blum moved nimbly aside. I beg yours, he said. Good day, Jack. Come in, come in. Good day. How are you, Deedless? Well, and yourself? JJ O'Malloy shook his head. Sad. Cleverest fellow at the junior bar he used to be. Declined poor chap. That hectic flush spells finish for a man. Touch and go with him. What's in the wind, I wonder. Money worry. Or again, if we but climb the serid mountain peaks. You're looking extra. Is the editor to be seen? JJ O'Malloy asked, looking towards the inner door. Very much so, Professor McHugh said, to be seen and heard. He's in his sanctum with Lenehan. JJ O'Malloy strolled to the sloping desk, and began to turn back the pink pages of the file. Practice dwindling. A mite of bean. Losing heart. Gambling. Dets of honour. Reaping the whirlwind. Used to get good retainers from D and T Fitzgerald. Their wigs, to show their grey matter. Brains on their sleeve, like the statue in Glass Nevin. Believe he does some literary work for the express, with Gabriel Conroy. Well, red fellow. Miles Crawford began on the independent. Funny the way those newspaper men veer about when they get wind of a new opening. Weathercocks, hot and cold in the same breath, wouldn't know which to believe. One story good till you hear the next. Go for one another, bald-headed in the papers, and then all blows over. How, fellow, well met the next moment. Ah, listen to this for God's sake, Ned Lambert pleaded. Or again, if we but climb the serried mountain peaks. Bombast! The Professor broke in testerly. Enough of the inflated wind-bag. Peaks, Ned Lambert went on, towering high on high, to bathe our souls as it were. Bathe his lips, Mr. Deedless said. Blessed an eternal God! Yes, is he taking anything for it? As twer in the peerless panorama of Ireland's portfolio unmatched, despite their well-praised prototypes in other vaunted prize regions, for very beauty of bosky grove and undulating plain, and luscious pastureland of vernal green, steeped in the transcendent translucent glow of our mild, mysterious Irish twilight. His native Doric. The moon, Professor McHugh said. He forgot Hamlet. That mantles the vista far and wide, and wait till the glowing orb of the moon shines forth to irradiate her silver effulgence. Oh, Mr. Deedless cried, giving vent to a hopeless groan. Shite and onions! That'll do, Ned. Life is too short. He took off his silk hat, and blowing out impatiently his bushy moustache, Welsh combed his hair with raking fingers. Ned Lambert tossed the newspaper aside, chuckling with delight. An instant after, a horse bark of laughter burst over Professor McHugh's unshaven, black, spectacled face. Do-e-daw, he cried. What weather-up said? All very fine to jeer at it now in cold print, but it goes down like hot cake, that stuff. He was in the bakery line, too, wasn't he? Why, they called him Do-e-daw, feathered his nest well anyhow. Daughter engaged to that chap in the inland revenue office with the motor, hooked that nicely. Entertainment's open house. Big blow-out. Weather-up always said that. Get a grip of them by the stomach. The inner door was opened violently, and a scarlet beaked face, crested by a comb of feathery hair, thrust itself in. The bold blue eyes stared about them, and the harsh voice asked, What is it? And here comes the sham-squire himself, Professor McHugh said grandly. Get out of that, you bloody old pedagogue, the editor said in recognition. Come, Ned, Mr. Dedalus said, putting on his hat. I must get a drink after that. Drink, the editor cried. No drink served before mass. Quite right, too, Mr. Dedalus said, going out. Come on, Ned. Ned Lambert sidled down from the table. The editor's blue eyes roved towards Mr. Bloom's face, shadowed by a smile. Will you join us, Miles? Ned Lambert asked. Memorable battles recalled. Northcork, Malaysia, the editor cried, stride into the mantelpiece. We won every time. Northcork and Spanish officers. Where was that, Miles? Ned Lambert asked, with a reflective glance at his toe-caps. In Ohio, the editor shouted. So it was beguiled, Ned Lambert agreed. Passing out, he whispered to JJ Omoloy. Incipient jigs, said Case. Ohio, the editor crowed, in high treble from his uplifted scarlet face. My Ohio. A perfect critic, the professor said. Long, short and long. Oh-harp Eolian. He took a reel of dental floss from his waistcoat pocket, and, breaking off a piece, twanged it smartly between two and two of his resonant unwashed teeth. Bing-bang, bang-bang. Mr. Bloom, seeing the coast clear, made for the inner door. Just a moment, Mr. Crawford, he said. I just want to phone about an ad. He went in. What about that leader this evening? Professor McHugh asked, coming to the editor, and laying a firm hand on his shoulder. That'll be all right. Miles Crawford said more calmly. Never you, fret. Hello, Jack. That's all right. Good day, Miles. J. J. O. Malloy said, letting the pages he held slip-limply back on the file. Is that Canada swindle case on today? The telephone word inside. 28. No, 20. Double four. Yes. Spot the winner. Leonard Hunt came out of the inner office, with sports tissues. Who wants a dead shirt for the gold copy? He asked. Sector with O. Madden up. He tossed the tissues onto the table. Screams of newsboys barefoot in the hall rushed near, and the door was flung open. Hush, Leonard Hunt said. I hear feet stoop. Professor McHugh strode across the room and seized the cringing urchin by the collar, as the others scampered out of the hall and down the steps. The tissues rustled up in the draft, floated softly in the air, blue scrolls and under the table came to earth. It wasn't me, sir. It was the big fellow shoved me, sir. Throw him out and shut the door, the editor said. There's a hurricane blowing. Leonard Hunt began to pour the tissues up from the floor, grunting, as he stooped twice. Waiting for the racing special, sir, the newsboy said. It was Pat Farrell shoved me, sir. He pointed to two faces, peering in round the door frame. Him, sir. Added this with you, Professor McHugh said gruffly. He hustled the boy out and banged the door, too. J.J. O'Malloy turned the files crackingly over, murmuring, seeking. Continued on page six, column four. Yes, evening telegraph here, Mr. Bloom phoned from the inner office. Is the boss? Yes, telegraph. To where? Aha! Which auction rooms? Aha, I see. Right, I'll catch him. A collision ensues. The bell rang again as he rang off. He came in quickly and bumped against Leonard Hunt, who was struggling up with the second tissue. By Don Monsieur, Leonard Hunt said, clutching him for an instant and making a grimace. My fault, Mr. Bloom said, suffering his grip. Are you hurt? I'm in a hurry. Knee, Leonard Hunt said. He made a comic face and whined, rubbing his knee. The accumulation of the anno domini. Sorry, Mr. Bloom said. He went to the door and, holding it ajar, paused. J.J. O'Malloy slapped the heavy pages over. The noise of two shrill voices, a mouth organ, echoed in the bare hallway from the news boys, squatted on the doorsteps. We are the boys of Wexford who fought with heart and hand. Exit Bloom I'm just running round to Bachelors Walk, Mr. Bloom said, about this ad of keysies. Want to fix it up? They tell me he's round there in Dillon's. He looked indecisively for a moment at their faces. The editor, who, leaning against the mantel shelf, had propped his head on his hand, suddenly stretched forth an arm, amply. Begone, he said. The world is before you. Back in no time, Mr. Bloom. Hurrying out. J.J. O'Malloy took the tissues from Lenehan's hand, and read them, blowing them apart gently, without comment. He'll get that advertisement, the professor said, staring through his black-rimmed spectacles over the cross-blind. Look at the young scamps after him. Show where, Lenehan cried, running to the window. End of section nine.