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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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