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Ulysses 

209 

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 1305 

Mr Bloom turned and saw the liveried porter raise his 

lettered cap as a stately figure entered between the 

newsboards of the Weekly Freeman and National Press and 

the  Freeman’s Journal and National Press. Dullthudding 

Guinness’s barrels. It passed statelily up the staircase, 

steered by an umbrella, a solemn beardframed face. The 

broadcloth back ascended each step: back. All his brains 

are in the nape of his neck, Simon Dedalus says. Welts of 

flesh behind on him. Fat folds of neck, fat, neck, fat, neck. 

—Don’t you think his face is like Our Saviour? Red 

Murray whispered. 

The door of Ruttledge’s office whispered: ee: cree. 

They always build one door opposite another for the wind 

to. Way in. Way out. 

Our Saviour: beardframed oval face: talking in the 

dusk. Mary, Martha. Steered by an umbrella sword to the 

footlights: Mario the tenor. 

—Or like Mario, Mr Bloom said. 

—Yes, Red Murray agreed. But Mario was said to be 

the picture of Our Saviour. 

Jesusmario with rougy cheeks, doublet and spindle legs. 

Hand on his heart. In Martha. 

Co-ome thou lost one, 

Co-ome thou dear one! 

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THE CROZIER AND THE PEN 

—His grace phoned down twice this morning, Red 

Murray said gravely. 

They watched the knees, legs, boots vanish. Neck. 

A telegram boy stepped in nimbly, threw an envelope 

on the counter and stepped off posthaste with a word: 

—Freeman! 

Mr Bloom said slowly: 

—Well, he is one of our saviours also. 

A meek smile accompanied him as he lifted the 

counterflap, as he passed in through a sidedoor and along 

the warm dark stairs and passage, along the now 

reverberating boards. But will he save the circulation? 

Thumping. Thumping. 

He pushed in the glass swingdoor and entered, stepping 

over strewn packing paper. Through a lane of clanking 

drums he made his way towards Nannetti’s reading closet. 

WITH UNFEIGNED REGRET IT IS 

WE ANNOUNCE THE 

DISSOLUTION 

OF A MOST RESPECTED DUBLIN 

BURGESS 

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Hynes here too: account of the funeral probably. 

Thumping. Thump. This morning the remains of the late 

Mr Patrick Dignam. Machines. Smash a man to atoms if 

they got him caught. Rule the world today. His 

machineries are pegging away too. Like these, got out of 

hand: fermenting. Working away, tearing away. And that 

old grey rat tearing to get in. 

HOW A GREAT DAILY ORGAN IS 

TURNED OUT 

Mr Bloom halted behind the foreman’s spare body, 

admiring a glossy crown. 

Strange he never saw his real country. Ireland my 

country. Member for College green. He boomed that 

workaday worker tack for all it was worth. It’s the ads and 

side features sell a weekly, not the stale news in the official 

gazette. Queen Anne is dead. Published by authority in 

the year one thousand and. Demesne situate in the 

townland of Rosenallis, barony of Tinnahinch. To all 

whom it may concern schedule pursuant to statute 

showing return of number of mules and jennets exported 

from Ballina. Nature notes. Cartoons. Phil Blake’s weekly 

Pat and Bull story. Uncle Toby’s page for tiny tots. 

Country bumpkin’s queries. Dear Mr Editor, what is a 

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good cure for flatulence? I’d like that part. Learn a lot 

teaching others. The personal note. M. A. P. Mainly all 

pictures. Shapely bathers on golden strand. World’s biggest 

balloon. Double marriage of sisters celebrated. Two 

bridegrooms laughing heartily at each other. Cuprani too, 

printer. More Irish than the Irish. 

The machines clanked in threefour time. Thump, 

thump, thump. Now if he got paralysed there and no-one 

knew how to stop them they’d clank on and on the same, 

print it over and over and up and back. Monkeydoodle 

the whole thing. Want a cool head. 

—Well, get it into the evening edition, councillor, 

Hynes said. 

Soon be calling him my lord mayor. Long John is 

backing him, they say. 

The foreman, without answering, scribbled press on a 

corner of the sheet and made a sign to a typesetter. He 

handed the sheet silently over the dirty glass screen. 

—Right: thanks, Hynes said moving off. 

Mr Bloom stood in his way. 

—If you want to draw the cashier is just going to 

lunch, he said, pointing backward with his thumb. 

—Did you? Hynes asked. 

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—Mm, Mr Bloom said. Look sharp and you’ll catch 

him. 

—Thanks, old man, Hynes said. I’ll tap him too. 

He hurried on eagerly towards the Freeman’s Journal. 

Three bob I lent him in Meagher’s. Three weeks. 

Third hint. 

WE SEE THE CANVASSER AT WORK 

Mr Bloom laid his cutting on Mr Nannetti’s desk. 

—Excuse me, councillor, he said. This ad, you see. 

Keyes, you remember? 

Mr Nannetti considered the cutting awhile and 

nodded. 

—He wants it in for July, Mr Bloom said. 

The foreman moved his pencil towards it. 

—But wait, Mr Bloom said. He wants it changed. 

Keyes, you see. He wants two keys at the top. 

Hell of a racket they make. He doesn’t hear it. Nannan. 

Iron nerves. Maybe he understands what I. 

The foreman turned round to hear patiently and, lifting 

an elbow, began to scratch slowly in the armpit of his 

alpaca jacket. 

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