had greatly perturbed his peace of mind in the other region and earnestly requested that his desire should be made known.
Assurances were given that the matter would be attended to and it was intimated that this had given satisfaction.
He is gone from mortal haunts: O’Dignam, sun of our morning. Fleet was his foot on the bracken: Patrick of the beamy brow. Wail, Banba, with your wind: and wail, O ocean, with your whirlwind.
―There he is again, says the citizen, staring out.
―Who? says I.
―Bloom, says he. He’s on point duty up and down there for the last ten minutes.
And, begob, I saw his physog do a peep in and then slidder off again.
Little Alf was knocked bawways. Faith, he was.
―Good Christ! says he. I could have sworn it was him.
And says Bob Doran, with the hat on the back of his poll, lowest blackguard in Dublin when he’s under the influence:
―Who said Christ is good?
―I beg your parsnips, says Alf.
―Is that a good Christ, says Bob Doran, to take away poor little Willy Dignam?
―Ah, well, says Alf, trying to pass it off. He’s over all his troubles.
But Bob Doran shouts out of him.
―He’s a bloody ruffian I say, to take away poor little Willy Dignam.