"(He plodges through their sump towards the lighted street beyond. From a bulge of window curtains a gramophone rears a battered brazen trunk. In the shadow a shebeenkeeper haggles with the navvy and the two redcoats.)
(Belching.) Where's the bloody house?
Purdon street. Shilling a bottle of stout. Respectable woman."
(Gripping the two redcoats, staggers forward with them.)
Come on, you British army!
(Behind his back.) He aint half balmy.
(Laughs.) What ho!"
(To the navvy.) Portobello barracks canteen. You ask for Carr. Just Carr.
We are the boys. Of Wexford."
We are the boys. Of Wexford.
Say! What price the sergeantmajor?
Bennett? He's my pal. I love old Bennett."
The galling chain.
And free our native land.
(He staggers forward, dragging them with him. Bloom stops, at fault."
"The dog approaches, his tongue outlolling, panting.)
Wildgoose chase this. Disorderly houses. Lord knows where they are gone. Drunks cover distance double quick. Nice mixup. Scene at Westland row."
"Then jump in first class with third ticket."
"Then too far. Train with engine behind. Might have taken me to Malahide or a siding for the night or collision. Second drink does it. Once is a dose. What am I following him for? Still, he's the best of that lot. If I hadn't heard about Mrs Beaufoy Purefoy I wouldn't have gone and wouldn't have met. Kismet."
" If I had passed Truelock's window that day two minutes later would have been shot. Absence of body. Still if bullet only went through my coat get damages for shock, five hundred pounds. What was he? Kildare street club toff. God help his gamekeeper."
"(He gazes ahead reading on the wall a scrawled chalk legend Wet Dream and a phallic design.) Odd! Molly drawing on the frosted carriagepane at Kingstown. What's that like?"
"(Gaudy dollwomen loll in the lighted doorways, in window embrasures, smoking birdseye cigarettes."
"The odour of the sicksweet weed floats towards him in slow round ovalling wreaths.)
Sweet are the sweets. Sweets of sin.
My spine's a bit limp. Go or turn? And this food? Eat it and get all pigsticky. Absurd I am. Waste of money. One and eightpence too much. (The retriever drives a cold snivelling muzzle against his hand, wagging his tail.) Strange how they take to me. Even that brute today."
"Better speak to him first. Like women they like rencontres. Stinks like a polecat. Chacun son gout. He might be mad. Dogdays. Uncertain in his movements. Good ellow! Fido! Good fellow! Garryowen! (The wolfdog sprawls on his back, wriggling obscenely with begging paws, his long black tongue lolling out.) Influence of his surroundings. Give and have done with it. Provided nobody. (Calling encouraging words he shambles back with a furtive poacher's tread,"
"dogged by the setter into a dark stalestunk corner. He unrolls one parcel and goes to dump the crubeen softly but holds back and feels the trotter.)"
"Sizeable for threepence. But then I have it in my left hand. Calls for more effort. Why? Smaller from want of use. O, let it slide. Two and six.
(With regret he lets the unrolled crubeen and trotter slide."
"The mastiff mauls the bundle clumsily and gluts himself with growling greed, crunching the bones."