seaward reaches of the river. The navvy staggering forward cleaves the crowd and lurches towards the tramsiding. On the farther side under the railway bridge Bloom appears flushed, panting, cramming bread and chocolate into a side pocket. From Gillen’s hairdresser’s window a composite portrait shows him gallant Nelson’s image. A concave mirror at the side presents to him lovelorn longlost lugubru Booloohoom. Grave Gladstone sees him level, Bloom for Bloom. He passes, struck by the stare of truculent Wellington but in the convex mirror grin unstruck the bonham eyes and fatchuck cheekchops of Jollypoldy the rixdix doldy.
At Antonio Rabaiotti’s door Bloom halts, sweated under the bright arclamps. He disappears. In a moment he reappears and hurries on.
We’re a capital couple are Bloom and I He brightens the earth, I polish the sky.
There’s someone in the house with Dina There’s someone in the house, I know, There’s someone in the house with Dina Playing on the old banjo.
Are you going far, queer fellow? How’s your middle leg? Got a match on you? Eh, come here till I stiffen it for you.
Shouts.
We are the boys. Of Wexford.
Shouts.
The galling chain. And free our native land.
Moses, Moses, king of the jews, Wiped his arse in the Daily News .
Barefoot, pigeonbreasted, in lascar’s vest and trousers, apologetic toes turned in, opens his tiny mole’s eyes and looks about him dazedly, passing a slow hand across his forehead. Then he hitches his belt sailor