―You know Simon Dedalus? he asked at length.
―I’ve heard of him, Stephen said.
Mr Bloom was all at sea for a moment, seeing the others evidently eavesdropping too.
―He’s Irish, the seaman bold affirmed, staring still in much the same way and nodding. All Irish.
―All too Irish, Stephen rejoined.
As for Mr Bloom he could neither make head or tail of the whole business and he was just asking himself what possible connection when the sailor, of his own accord, turned to the other occupants of the shelter with the remark:
―I seen him shoot two eggs off two bottles at fifty yards over his shoulder. The left hand dead shot.
Though he was slightly hampered by an occasional stammer and his gestures being also clumsy as it was still he did his best to explain.
―Bottle out there, say. Fifty yards measured. Eggs on the bottles. Cocks his gun over his shoulder. Aims.
He turned his body half round, shut up his right eye completely, then he screwed his features up some way sideways and glared out into the night with an unprepossessing cast of countenance.
―Pom, he then shouted once.
The entire audience waited, anticipating an additional detonation, there being still a further egg.
―Pom, he shouted twice.