―What’s that? his sharp voice said.
―I say you can keep it, Mr Bloom answered. I was going to throw it away that moment.
Bantam Lyons doubted an instant, leering: then thrust the outspread sheets back on Mr Bloom’s arms.
―I’ll risk it, he said. Here, thanks.
He sped off towards Conway’s corner.
God speed scut.
Mr Bloom folded the sheets again to a neat square and lodged the soap in it, smiling.
Silly lips of that chap. Betting. Regular hotbed of it lately.
Messenger boys stealing to put on sixpence.
Raffle for large tender turkey. Your Christmas dinner for threepence.
Jack Fleming embezzling to gamble then smuggled off to America. Keeps a hotel now. They never come back. Fleshpots of Egypt.
He walked cheerfully towards the mosque of the baths. Remind you of a mosque redbaked bricks, the minarets. College sports today I see.
He eyed the horseshoe poster over the gate of college park: cyclist doubled up like a cod in a pot. Damn bad ad. Now if they had made it round like a wheel. Then the spokes: sports, sports, sports: and the hub big: college. Something to catch the eye.
There’s Hornblower standing at the porter’s lodge. Keep him on hands: might take a turn in there on the nod. How do you do, Mr Hornblower? How do you do, sir?