There ensued a somewhat lengthy pause. One man was reading by fits and starts a stained by coffee evening journal; another, the card with the natives choza de ; another, the seaman’s discharge. Mr Bloom, so far as he was personally concerned, was just pondering in pensive mood. He vividly recollected when the occurrence alluded to took place as well as yesterday, some score of years previously, in the days of the land troubles when it took the civilised world by storm, figuratively speaking, early in the eighties, eightyone to be correct, when he was just turned fifteen.
―Ay, boss, the sailor broke in. Give us back them papers.
The request being complied with, he clawed them up with a scrape.
―Have you seen the Rock of Gibraltar? Mr Bloom inquired.
The sailor grimaced, chewing, in a way that might be read as yes, ay, or no.
―Ah, you’ve touched there too, Mr Bloom said, Europa point, thinking he had, in the hope that the rover might possibly by some reminiscences but he failed to do so, simply letting spurt a jet of spew into the sawdust, and shook his head with a sort of lazy scorn.
―What year would that be about? Mr Bloom interpolated. Can you recall the boats?
Our soi-disant sailor munched heavily awhile, hungrily, before answering.
―I’m tired of all them rocks in the sea, he said, and boats and ships. Salt junk all the time.