Goodgod. Inev erate inall ....
(With hanging head he marches doggedly forward The navvy, lurching by, gores him with his flaming pronghorn.)
(with a cry of pain, his hand to his back) Ah! Bright's! Lights!
(points to the navvy) A spy. Don't attract attention. I hate stupid crowds. I am not on pleasure bent. I am in a grave predicament.
Humbugging and deluthering as per usual with your cock and bull story."
I want to tell you a little secret about how I came to be here. But you must never tell. Not even Molly. I have a most particular reason.
(All agog.) O, not for worlds.
Let's walk on. Shall us?
(The bawd makes an unheeded sign. Bloom walks on with Mrs Breen."
(in an oatmeal sporting suit, a sprig of woodbine in the lapel, Tony buff shirt, shepherd's plaid Saint Andrew's cross scarftie, white spats, fawn dustcoat on his arm, tawny red brogues, fieldglasses in bandolier and a grey billycock hat)"
Spats are a type of classic footwear accessory for outdoor wear, covering the instep and the ankle, worn by men in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Often made of white cloth, spats buttoned around the ankle. Their practical purpose was to protect shoes and socks from mud or rain, but also served as a feature of stylish dress. They fell out of frequent use during the 1920s.
(in smart Saxe tailormade, white velours hat and spider) Leopardstown.
I mean, Leopardstown. And Molly won seven shillings on a three year old named Nevertell" (U15.539)
She did, of course, the cat! Don't tell me! Nice adviser!"
Because it didn't suit you one quarter as well as the other ducky little tammy toque with the bird of paradise wing in it that I admired on you and you honestly looked just too fetching in it though it was a pity to kill it, you cruel naughty creature, little mite of a thing with a heart the size of a fullstop.
(Squeezes his arm, simpers.) Naughty cruel I was!"
(low, secretly, ever more rapidly) And Molly was eating a sandwich of spiced beef out of Mrs Joe Gallaher's lunch basket."
Yes. And Molly was laughing because Rogers and Maggot O'Reilly were mimicking a cock as we passed a farmhouse and Marcus Tertius Moses, the tea merchant, drove past us in a gig with his daughter, Dancer Moses was her name,"
(eagerly) Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.
(She fades from his side. Followed by the whining dog he walks on towards hellsgates."
(Crouches, his voice twisted in his snout.) And when Cairns came down from the scaffolding in Beaver Street what was he after doing it into only into the bucket of porter that was there waiting on the shavings for Derwan's plasterers.
(guffaw with cleft palates) O jays!
(Their paintspeckled hats wag. Spattered with size and lime of their lodges they frisk limblessly about him.)
Coincidence too. They think it funny. Anything but that. Broad daylight. Trying to walk. Lucky no woman.
Jays, that's a good one. Glauber salts. O jays, into the men's porter." (U15.578)