Mr Bloom raised a cake to his nostrils. Sweet lemony wax.
―I’ll take this one, he said. That makes three and a penny.
―Yes, sir, the chemist said. You can pay all together, sir, when you come back.
―Good, Mr Bloom said.
He strolled out of the shop, the newspaper baton under his armpit, the coolwrappered soap in his left hand.
At his armpit Bantam Lyons’ voice and hand said:
―Hello, Bloom, what’s the best news? Is that today’s? Show us a minute.
Shaved off his moustache again, by Jove! Long cold upper lip. To look younger. He does look balmy. Younger than I am.
Bantam Lyons’ yellow blacknailed fingers unrolled the baton. Wants a wash too. Take off the rough dirt. Good morning, have you used Pears’ soap? Dandruff on his shoulders. Scalp wants oiling.
―I want to see about that French horse that’s running today, Bantam Lyons said. Where the bugger is it?
He rustled the pleated pages, jerking his chin on his high collar. Barber’s itch. Tight collar he’ll lose his hair. Better leave him the paper and get shut of him.
―You can keep it, Mr Bloom said.
―Ascot. Gold cup. Wait, Bantam Lyons muttered. Half a mo. Maximum the second.
―I was just going to throw it away, Mr Bloom said.