of the cliff, watching: businessman, boatman.
―She’s making for Bullock harbour.
The boatman nodded towards the north of the bay with some disdain.
―There’s five fathoms out there, he said. It’ll be swept up that way when the tide comes in about one. It’s nine days today.
The man that was drowned. A sail veering about the blank bay waiting for a swollen bundle to bob up, roll over to the sun a puffy face, salt white. Here I am.
They followed the winding path down to the creek.
Buck Mulligan stood on a stone, in shirtsleeves, his unclipped tie rippling over his shoulder.
A young man clinging to a spur of rock near him, moved slowly frogwise his green legs in the deep jelly of the water.
―Is the brother with you, Malachi?
―Down in Westmeath. With the Bannons.
―Still there? I got a card from Bannon. Says he found a sweet young thing down there. Photo girl he calls her.
―Shapshot, eh? Brief exposure.
Buck Mulligan sat down to unlace his boots. An elderly man shot up near the spur of rock a blowing red face. He scrambled up by the stones, water glistening on his pate and on its garland of grey hair, water rilling over his chest