"Davy Byrne came forward from the hindbar in tuckstitched shirtsleeves, cleaning his lips with two wipes of his napkin. Herring's blush. Whose smile upon each feature plays with such and such replete. Too much fat on the parsnips.
- And here's himself and pepper on him, Nosey Flynn said." (U8.809)
[NB: this is not Davy Byrne]
"Can you give us a good one for the Gold cup?
- I'm off that, Mr Flynn, Davy Byrne answered. I never put anything on a horse.
- You're right there, Nosey Flynn said. " (U8.813)
"Mr Bloom ate his strips of sandwich, fresh clean bread, with relish of disgust, pungent mustard, the feety savour of green cheese." (U8.818)
"Sips of his wine soothed his palate. Not logwood that. Tastes fuller this weather with the chill off.
Nice quiet bar. Nice piece of wood in that counter. Nicely planed. Like the way it curves there." (U8.819)
"- I wouldn't do anything at all in that line, Davy Byrne said. It ruined many a man the same horses.
Vintners' sweepstake. Licensed for the sale of beer, wine and spirits for consumption on the premises" (U8.824)
In this Christian PC, the 'races' listed at the bookie's window are titled Lost Hope, Desperation, Theft and Suicide.
"Heads I win tails you lose." (U8.827)
"- True for you, Nosey Flynn said. Unless you're in the know. There's no straight sport going now. Lenehan gets some good ones. He's giving Sceptre today." (U8.828)
"Zinfandel's the favourite, lord Howard de Walden's, won at Epsom." (U8.830)
"Morny Cannon is riding him." (U8.831)
Herbert Mornington Cannon (1873 - 1962). He was the son of famous jockey Thomas Cannon. On the day he was born, May 21st 1873, his father had ridden the colt Mornington to victory at Bath, and gave the horse's name to his son. Morny was only 13 when he rode his first winner, becoming a leading jockey and Champion 6 times.
"I could have got seven to one against Saint Amant a fortnight before.
- That so? Davy Byrne said.
He went towards the window and, taking up the petty cash book, scanned its pages.
- I could, faith, Nosey Flynn said snuffling. That was a rare bit of horseflesh. Saint Frusquin was her sire. She won in a thunderstorm, Rothschild's filly, with wadding in her ears. Blue jacket and yellow cap." (U8.831)
"Bad luck to big Ben Dollard and his John O'Gaunt. He put me off it. Ay.
He drank resignedly from his tumbler, running his fingers down the flutes.
- Ay, he said, sighing." (U8.839)
"Mr Bloom, champing standing, looked upon his sigh. Nosey numskull. Will I tell him that horse Lenehan? He knows already. Better let him forget. Go and lose more. Fool and his money. Dewdrop coming down again. Cold nose he'd have kissing a woman. Still they might like. Prickly beards they like." (U8.840)
"Dogs' cold noses." (U8.847)
"Old Mrs Riordan with the rumbling stomach's Skye terrier in the City Arms hotel. Molly fondling him in her lap. O, the big doggybowwowsywowsy!" (U8.847)
"Wine soaked and softened rolled pith of bread mustard a moment mawkish cheese. Nice wine it is. Taste it better because I'm not thirsty. Bath of course does that. Just a bite or two. Then about six o'clock I can. Six, six. Time will be gone then. She...
Mild fire of wine kindled his veins. I wanted that badly. Felt so off colour." (U8.850)
"His eyes unhungrily saw shelves of tins: sardines, gaudy lobsters' claws. All the odd things people pick up for food." (U8.855)