forth to battle, Mr O’Madden Burke said greyly, but they always fell.
―Boohoo! Lenehan wept with a little noise. Owing to a brick received in the latter half of the matinée . Poor, poor, poor Pyrrhus!
He whispered then near Stephen’s ear:
Lenehen’s Limerick
―There’s a ponderous pundit MacHugh Who wears goggles of ebony hue. As he mostly sees double To wear them why trouble? I can’t see the Joe Miller. Can you?
In mourning for Sallust, Mulligan says. Whose mother is beastly dead.
Myles Crawford crammed the sheets into a sidepocket.
―That’ll be all right, he said. I’ll read the rest after. That’ll be all right.
Lenehan extended his hands in protest.
―But my riddle! he said. What opera is like a railway line?
―Opera? Mr O’Madden Burke’s sphinx face reriddled.
Lenehan announced gladly:
― The Rose of Castille . See the wheeze? Rows of cast steel. Gee!
He poked Mr O’Madden Burke mildly in the spleen. Mr O’Madden Burke fell back with grace on his umbrella, feigning a gasp.
―Help! he sighed. I feel a strong weakness.
Lenehan, rising to tiptoe, fanned his face rapidly with the rustling tissues.
The professor, returning by way of the files, swept his