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Ulysses 

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establishments whole thing quite painless out of all the 

taxes give every child born five quid at compound interest 

up to twentyone five per cent is a hundred shillings and 

five tiresome pounds multiply by twenty decimal system 

encourage people to put by money save hundred and ten 

and a bit twentyone years want to work it out on paper 

come to a tidy sum more than you think. 

Not stillborn of course. They are not even registered. 

Trouble for nothing. 

Funny sight two of them together, their bellies out. 

Molly and Mrs Moisel. Mothers’ meeting. Phthisis retires 

for the time being, then returns. How flat they look all of 

a sudden after. Peaceful eyes. Weight off their mind. Old 

Mrs Thornton was a jolly old soul. All my babies, she said. 

The spoon of pap in her mouth before she fed them. O, 

that’s nyumnyum. Got her hand crushed by old Tom 

Wall’s son. His first bow to the public. Head like a prize 

pumpkin. Snuffy Dr Murren. People knocking them up at 

all hours. For God’ sake, doctor. Wife in her throes. Then 

keep them waiting months for their fee. To attendance on 

your wife. No gratitude in people. Humane doctors, most 

of them. 

Before the huge high door of the Irish house of 

parliament a flock of pigeons flew. Their little frolic after 

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meals. Who will we do it on? I pick the fellow in black. 

Here goes. Here’s good luck. Must be thrilling from the 

air. Apjohn, myself and Owen Goldberg up in the trees 

near Goose green playing the monkeys. Mackerel they 

called me. 

A squad of constables debouched from College street, 

marching in Indian file. Goosestep. Foodheated faces, 

sweating helmets, patting their truncheons. After their feed 

with a good load of fat soup under their belts. Policeman’s 

lot is oft a happy one. They split up in groups and 

scattered, saluting, towards their beats. Let out to graze. 

Best moment to attack one in pudding time. A punch in 

his dinner. A squad of others, marching irregularly, 

rounded Trinity railings making for the station. Bound for 

their troughs. Prepare to receive cavalry. Prepare to 

receive soup. 

He crossed under Tommy Moore’s roguish finger. 

They did right to put him up over a urinal: meeting of the 

waters. Ought to be places for women. Running into 

cakeshops. Settle my hat straight. There is not in this wide 

world a vallee. Great song of Julia Morkan’s. Kept her voice 

up to the very last. Pupil of Michael Balfe’s, wasn’t she? 

He gazed after the last broad tunic. Nasty customers to 

tackle. Jack Power could a tale unfold: father a G man. If a 

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fellow gave them trouble being lagged they let him have it 

hot and heavy in the bridewell. Can’t blame them after all 

with the job they have especially the young hornies. That 

horsepoliceman the day Joe Chamberlain was given his 

degree in Trinity he got a run for his money. My word he 

did! His horse’s hoofs clattering after us down Abbey 

street. Lucky I had the presence of mind to dive into 

Manning’s or I was souped. He did come a wallop, by 

George. Must have cracked his skull on the cobblestones. I 

oughtn’t to have got myself swept along with those 

medicals. And the Trinity jibs in their mortarboards. 

Looking for trouble. Still I got to know that young Dixon 

who dressed that sting for me in the Mater and now he’s 

in Holles street where Mrs Purefoy. Wheels within 

wheels. Police whistle in my ears still. All skedaddled. 

Why he fixed on me. Give me in charge. Right here it 

began. 

—Up the Boers! 

—Three cheers for De Wet! 

—We’ll hang Joe Chamberlain on a sourapple tree. 

Silly billies: mob of young cubs yelling their guts out. 

Vinegar hill. The Butter exchange band. Few years’ time 

half of them magistrates and civil servants. War comes on: 

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into the army helterskelter: same fellows used to. Whether 

on the scaffold high. 

Never know who you’re talking to. Corny Kelleher he 

has Harvey Duff in his eye. Like that Peter or Denis or 

James Carey that blew the gaff on the invincibles. Member 

of the corporation too. Egging raw youths on to get in the 

know all the time drawing secret service pay from the 

castle. Drop him like a hot potato. Why those plainclothes 

men are always courting slaveys. Easily twig a man used to 

uniform. Squarepushing up against a backdoor. Maul her a 

bit. Then the next thing on the menu. And who is the 

gentleman does be visiting there? Was the young master 

saying anything? Peeping Tom through the keyhole. 

Decoy duck. Hotblooded young student fooling round 

her fat arms ironing. 

—Are those yours, Mary? 

—I don’t wear such things ... Stop or I’ll tell the missus 

on you. Out half the night. 

—There are great times coming, Mary. Wait till you 

see. 

—Ah, gelong with your great times coming. 

Barmaids too. Tobaccoshopgirls. 

James Stephens’ idea was the best. He knew them. 

Circles of ten so that a fellow couldn’t round on more 

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