The tissues rustled up in the draught, floated softly in the air blue scrawls and under the table came to earth.

―It wasn’t me, sir. It was the big fellow shoved me, sir.

―Throw him out and shut the door, the editor said. There’s a hurricane blowing.

Lenehan began to paw the tissues up from the floor, grunting as he stooped twice.

―Waiting for the racing special, sir, the newsboy said. It was Pat Farrell shoved me, sir.

He pointed to two faces peering in round the doorframe.

―Him, sir.

―Out of this with you, professor MacHugh said gruffly.

He hustled the boy out and banged the door to.

J. J. O’Molloy turned the files crackingly over, murmuring, seeking:

―Continued on page six, column four.

―Yes⁠ ⁠… Evening Telegraph here, Mr Bloom phoned from the inner office. Is the boss⁠ ⁠… ? Yes, Telegraph ⁠ ⁠… To where?⁠ ⁠… Aha! Which auction rooms?⁠ ⁠… Aha! I see⁠ ⁠… Right. I’ll catch him.

A Collision Ensues

The bell whirred again as he rang off. He came in quickly and bumped against Lenehan who was struggling up with the second tissue.

― Pardon, monsieur, Lenehan said, clutching him for an instant and