Buck Mulligan’s voice sang from within the tower. It came nearer up the staircase, calling again. Stephen, still trembling at his soul’s cry, heard warm running sunlight and in the air behind him friendly words.
―Dedalus, come down, like a good mosey. Breakfast is ready. Haines is apologising for waking us last night. It’s all right.
―I’m coming, Stephen said, turning.
―Do, for Jesus’ sake, Buck Mulligan said. For my sake and for all our sakes.
His head disappeared and reappeared.
―I told him your symbol of Irish art. He says it’s very clever. Touch him for a quid, will you? A guinea, I mean.
―I get paid this morning, Stephen said.
―The school kip? Buck Mulligan said. How much? Four quid? Lend us one.
―If you want it, Stephen said.
―Four shining sovereigns, Buck Mulligan cried with delight. We’ll have a glorious drunk to astonish the druidy druids. Four omnipotent sovereigns.
He flung up his hands and tramped down the stone stairs, singing out of tune with a Cockney accent:
O, won’t we have a merry time, Drinking whisky, beer and wine, On coronation Coronation day? O, won’t we have a merry time On coronation day?
Warm sunshine merrying over the sea. The nickel shavingbowl shone, forgotten, on the parapet. Why should I bring it down? Or leave it there