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Ulysses 

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phone him up first. Number? Yes. Same as Citron’s house. 

Twentyeight. Twentyeight double four. 

ONLY ONCE MORE THAT SOAP 

He went down the house staircase. Who the deuce 

scrawled all over those walls with matches? Looks as if 

they did it for a bet. Heavy greasy smell there always is in 

those works. Lukewarm glue in Thom’s next door when I 

was there. 

He took out his handkerchief to dab his nose. 

Citronlemon? Ah, the soap I put there. Lose it out of that 

pocket. Putting back his handkerchief he took out the 

soap and stowed it away, buttoned, into the hip pocket of 

his trousers. 

What perfume does your wife use? I could go home 

still: tram: something I forgot. Just to see: before: dressing. 

No. Here. No. 

A sudden screech of laughter came from the Evening 

Telegraph office. Know who that is. What’s up? Pop in a 

minute to phone. Ned Lambert it is. 

He entered softly. 

ERIN, GREEN GEM OF THE SILVER 

SEA 

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—The ghost walks, professor MacHugh murmured 

softly, biscuitfully to the dusty windowpane. 

Mr Dedalus, staring from the empty fireplace at Ned 

Lambert’s quizzing face, asked of it sourly: 

—Agonising Christ, wouldn’t it give you a heartburn 

on your arse? 

Ned Lambert, seated on the table, read on: 

—Or again, note the meanderings of some purling rill as it 

babbles on its way, tho’ quarrelling with the stony obstacles, to 

the tumbling waters of Neptune’s blue domain, ‘mid mossy 

banks, fanned by gentlest zephyrs, played on by the glorious 

sunlight or ‘neath the shadows cast o’er its pensive bosom by the 

overarching leafage of the giants of the forest. What about that, 

Simon? he asked over the fringe of his newspaper. How’s 

that for high? 

—Changing his drink, Mr Dedalus said. 

Ned Lambert, laughing, struck the newspaper on his 

knees, repeating: 

—The pensive bosom and the overarsing leafage. O boys! O 

boys! 

—And Xenophon looked upon Marathon, Mr Dedalus 

said, looking again on the fireplace and to the window, 

and Marathon looked on the sea. 

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—That will do, professor MacHugh cried from the 

window. I don’t want to hear any more of the stuff. 

He ate off the crescent of water biscuit he had been 

nibbling and, hungered, made ready to nibble the biscuit 

in his other hand. 

High falutin stuff. Bladderbags. Ned Lambert is taking a 

day off I see. Rather upsets a man’s day, a funeral does. He 

has influence they say. Old Chatterton, the vicechancellor, 

is his granduncle or his greatgranduncle. Close on ninety 

they say. Subleader for his death written this long time 

perhaps. Living to spite them. Might go first himself. 

Johnny, make room for your uncle. The right honourable 

Hedges Eyre Chatterton. Daresay he writes him an odd 

shaky cheque or two on gale days. Windfall when he kicks 

out. Alleluia. 

—Just another spasm, Ned Lambert said. 

—What is it? Mr Bloom asked. 

—A recently discovered fragment of Cicero, professor 

MacHugh answered with pomp of tone. Our lovely land. 

SHORT BUT TO THE POINT 

—Whose land? Mr Bloom said simply. 

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—Most pertinent question, the professor said between 

his chews. With an accent on the whose. 

—Dan Dawson’s land Mr Dedalus said. 

—Is it his speech last night? Mr Bloom asked. 

Ned Lambert nodded. 

—But listen to this, he said. 

The doorknob hit Mr Bloom in the small of the back 

as the door was pushed in. 

—Excuse me, J. J. O’Molloy said, entering. 

Mr Bloom moved nimbly aside. 

—I beg yours, he said. 

—Good day, Jack. 

—Come in. Come in. 

—Good day. 

—How are you, Dedalus? 

—Well. And yourself? 

J. J. O’Molloy shook his head. 

SAD 

Cleverest fellow at the junior bar he used to be. 

Decline, poor chap. That hectic flush spells finis for a man. 

Touch and go with him. What’s in the wind, I wonder. 

Money worry. 

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—Or again if we but climb the serried mountain peaks. 

—You’re looking extra. 

—Is the editor to be seen? J. J. O’Molloy asked, 

looking towards the inner door. 

—Very much so, professor MacHugh said. To be seen 

and heard. He’s in his sanctum with Lenehan. 

J. J. O’Molloy strolled to the sloping desk and began to 

turn back the pink pages of the file. 

Practice dwindling. A mighthavebeen. Losing heart. 

Gambling. Debts of honour. Reaping the whirlwind. 

Used to get good retainers from D. and T. Fitzgerald. 

Their wigs to show the grey matter. Brains on their sleeve 

like the statue in Glasnevin. Believe he does some literary 

work for the Express with Gabriel Conroy. Wellread 

fellow. Myles Crawford began on the Independent. Funny 

the way those newspaper men veer about when they get 

wind of a new opening. Weathercocks. Hot and cold in 

the same breath. Wouldn’t know which to believe. One 

story good till you hear the next. Go for one another 

baldheaded in the papers and then all blows over. Hail 

fellow well met the next moment. 

—Ah, listen to this for God’ sake, Ned Lambert 

pleaded. Or again if we but climb the serried mountain peaks ... 

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