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Ulysses 

240 

of

 1305 

The professor, returning by way of the files, swept his 

hand across Stephen’s and Mr O’Madden Burke’s loose 

ties. 

—Paris, past and present, he said. You look like 

communards. 

—Like fellows who had blown up the Bastile, J. J. 

O’Molloy said in quiet mockery. Or was it you shot the 

lord lieutenant of Finland between you? You look as 

though you had done the deed. General Bobrikoff. 

OMNIUM GATHERUM 

—We were only thinking about it, Stephen said. 

—All the talents, Myles Crawford said. Law, the classics 

... 

—The turf, Lenehan put in. 

—Literature, the press. 

—If Bloom were here, the professor said. The gentle 

art of advertisement. 

—And Madam Bloom, Mr O’Madden Burke added. 

The vocal muse. Dublin’s prime favourite. 

Lenehan gave a loud cough. 

—Ahem! he said very softly. O, for a fresh of breath 

air! I caught a cold in the park. The gate was open. 

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YOU CAN DO IT 

!  

The editor laid a nervous hand on Stephen’s shoulder. 

—I want you to write something for me, he said. 

Something with a bite in it. You can do it. I see it in your 

face. In the lexicon of youth ... 

See it in your face. See it in your eye. Lazy idle little 

schemer. 

—Foot and mouth disease! the editor cried in scornful 

invective. Great nationalist meeting in Borris-in-Ossory. 

All balls! Bulldosing the public! Give them something with 

a bite in it. Put us all into it, damn its soul. Father, Son 

and Holy Ghost and Jakes M’Carthy. 

—We can all supply mental pabulum, Mr O’Madden 

Burke said. 

Stephen raised his eyes to the bold unheeding stare. 

—He wants you for the pressgang, J. J. O’Molloy said. 

THE GREAT GALLAHER 

—You can do it, Myles Crawford repeated, clenching 

his hand in emphasis. Wait a minute. We’ll paralyse 

Europe as Ignatius Gallaher used to say when he was on 

the shaughraun, doing billiardmarking in the Clarence. 

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Gallaher, that was a pressman for you. That was a pen. 

You know how he made his mark? I’ll tell you. That was 

the smartest piece of journalism ever known. That was in 

eightyone, sixth of May, time of the invincibles, murder in 

the Phoenix park, before you were born, I suppose. I’ll 

show you. 

He pushed past them to the files. 

—Look at here, he said turning. The New York World 

cabled for a special. Remember that time? 

Professor MacHugh nodded. 

—New York World, the editor said, excitedly pushing 

back his straw hat. Where it took place. Tim Kelly, or 

Kavanagh I mean. Joe Brady and the rest of them. Where 

Skin-the-Goat drove the car. Whole route, see? 

—Skin-the-Goat, Mr O’Madden Burke said. Fitzharris. 

He has that cabman’s shelter, they say, down there at Butt 

bridge. Holohan told me. You know Holohan? 

—Hop and carry one, is it? Myles Crawford said. 

—And poor Gumley is down there too, so he told me, 

minding stones for the corporation. A night watchman. 

Stephen turned in surprise. 

—Gumley? he said. You don’t say so? A friend of my 

father’s, is it? 

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—Never mind Gumley, Myles Crawford cried angrily. 

Let Gumley mind the stones, see they don’t run away. 

Look at here. What did Ignatius Gallaher do? I’ll tell you. 

Inspiration of genius. Cabled right away. Have you Weekly 

Freeman of 17 March? Right. Have you got that? 

He flung back pages of the files and stuck his finger on 

a point. 

—Take page four, advertisement for Bransome’s coffee, 

let us say. Have you got that? Right. 

The telephone whirred. 

A DISTANT VOICE 

—I’ll answer it, the professor said, going. 

—B is parkgate. Good. 

His finger leaped and struck point after point, vibrating. 

—T is viceregal lodge. C is where murder took place. 

K is Knockmaroon gate. 

The loose flesh of his neck shook like a cock’s wattles. 

An illstarched dicky jutted up and with a rude gesture he 

thrust it back into his waistcoat. 

—Hello?  Evening Telegraph here ... Hello?... Who’s 

there? ... Yes ... Yes ... Yes. 

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—F to P is the route Skin-the-Goat drove the car for 

an alibi, Inchicore, Roundtown, Windy Arbour, 

Palmerston Park, Ranelagh. F.A.B.P. Got that? X is 

Davy’s publichouse in upper Leeson street. 

The professor came to the inner door. 

—Bloom is at the telephone, he said. 

—Tell him go to hell, the editor said promptly. X is 

Davy’s publichouse, see? 

CLEVER, VERY 

—Clever, Lenehan said. Very. 

—Gave it to them on a hot plate, Myles Crawford said, 

the whole bloody history. 

Nightmare from which you will never awake. 

—I saw it, the editor said proudly. I was present. Dick 

Adams, the besthearted bloody Corkman the Lord ever 

put the breath of life in, and myself. 

Lenehan bowed to a shape of air, announcing: 

—Madam, I’m Adam. And Able was I ere I saw Elba. 

—History! Myles Crawford cried. The Old Woman of 

Prince’s street was there first. There was weeping and 

gnashing of teeth over that. Out of an advertisement. 

Gregor Grey made the design for it. That gave him the leg 

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