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Ulysses 

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 1305 

—Bombast! the professor broke in testily. Enough of 

the inflated windbag! 

—Peaks, Ned Lambert went on, towering high on high, to 

bathe our souls, as it were ... 

—Bathe his lips, Mr Dedalus said. Blessed and eternal 

God! Yes? Is he taking anything for it? 

—As ‘twere, in the peerless panorama of Ireland’s portfolio, 

unmatched, despite their wellpraised prototypes in other vaunted 

prize regions, for very beauty, of bosky grove and undulating 

plain and luscious pastureland of vernal green, steeped in the 

transcendent translucent glow of our mild mysterious Irish twilight 

... 

HIS NATIVE DORIC 

—The moon, professor MacHugh said. He forgot 

Hamlet. 

—That mantles the vista far and wide and wait till the 

glowing orb of the moon shine forth to irradiate her silver 

effulgence ... 

—O! Mr Dedalus cried, giving vent to a hopeless 

groan. Shite and onions! That’ll do, Ned. Life is too short. 

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He took off his silk hat and, blowing out impatiently 

his bushy moustache, welshcombed his hair with raking 

fingers. 

Ned Lambert tossed the newspaper aside, chuckling 

with delight. An instant after a hoarse bark of laughter 

burst over professor MacHugh’s unshaven blackspectacled 

face. 

—Doughy Daw! he cried. 

WHAT WETHERUP SAID 

All very fine to jeer at it now in cold print but it goes 

down like hot cake that stuff. He was in the bakery line 

too, wasn’t he? Why they call him Doughy Daw. 

Feathered his nest well anyhow. Daughter engaged to that 

chap in the inland revenue office with the motor. Hooked 

that nicely. Entertainments. Open house. Big blowout. 

Wetherup always said that. Get a grip of them by the 

stomach. 

The inner door was opened violently and a scarlet 

beaked face, crested by a comb of feathery hair, thrust 

itself in. The bold blue eyes stared about them and the 

harsh voice asked: 

—What is it? 

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—And here comes the sham squire himself! professor 

MacHugh said grandly. 

—Getonouthat, you bloody old pedagogue! the editor 

said in recognition. 

—Come, Ned, Mr Dedalus said, putting on his hat. I 

must get a drink after that. 

—Drink! the editor cried. No drinks served before 

mass. 

—Quite right too, Mr Dedalus said, going out. Come 

on, Ned. 

Ned Lambert sidled down from the table. The editor’s 

blue eyes roved towards Mr Bloom’s face, shadowed by a 

smile. 

—Will you join us, Myles? Ned Lambert asked. 

MEMORABLE BATTLES RECALLED 

—North Cork militia! the editor cried, striding to the 

mantelpiece. We won every time! North Cork and 

Spanish officers! 

—Where was that, Myles? Ned Lambert asked with a 

reflective glance at his toecaps. 

—In Ohio! the editor shouted. 

—So it was, begad, Ned Lambert agreed. 

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Passing out he whispered to J. J. O’Molloy: 

—Incipient jigs. Sad case. 

—Ohio! the editor crowed in high treble from his 

uplifted scarlet face. My Ohio! 

—A perfect cretic! the professor said. Long, short and 

long. 

O, HARP EOLIAN! 

He took a reel of dental floss from his waistcoat pocket 

and, breaking off a piece, twanged it smartly between two 

and two of his resonant unwashed teeth. 

—Bingbang, bangbang. 

Mr Bloom, seeing the coast clear, made for the inner 

door. 

—Just a moment, Mr Crawford, he said. I just want to 

phone about an ad. 

He went in. 

—What about that leader this evening? professor 

MacHugh asked, coming to the editor and laying a firm 

hand on his shoulder. 

—That’ll be all right, Myles Crawford said more 

calmly. Never you fret. Hello, Jack. That’s all right. 

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—Good day, Myles, J. J. O’Molloy said, letting the 

pages he held slip limply back on the file. Is that Canada 

swindle case on today? 

The telephone whirred inside. 

—Twentyeight ... No, twenty ... Double four ... Yes. 

SPOT THE WINNER 

Lenehan came out of the inner office with SPORT’S 

tissues. 

—Who wants a dead cert for the Gold cup? he asked. 

Sceptre with O. Madden up. 

He tossed the tissues on to the table. 

Screams of newsboys barefoot in the hall rushed near 

and the door was flung open. 

—Hush, Lenehan said. I hear feetstoops. 

Professor MacHugh strode across the room and seized 

the cringing urchin by the collar as the others scampered 

out of the hall and down the steps. The tissues rustled up 

in the draught, floated softly in the air blue scrawls and 

under the table came to earth. 

—It wasn’t me, sir. It was the big fellow shoved me, 

sir. 

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—Throw him out and shut the door, the editor said. 

There’s a hurricane blowing. 

Lenehan began to paw the tissues up from the floor, 

grunting as he stooped twice. 

—Waiting for the racing special, sir, the newsboy said. 

It was Pat Farrell shoved me, sir. 

He pointed to two faces peering in round the 

doorframe. 

—Him, sir. 

—Out of this with you, professor MacHugh said 

gruffly. 

He hustled the boy out and banged the door to. 

J. J. O’Molloy turned the files crackingly over, 

murmuring, seeking: 

—Continued on page six, column four. 

—Yes, Evening Telegraph here, Mr Bloom phoned from 

the inner office. Is the boss ...? Yes, Telegraph ... To 

where? Aha! Which auction rooms ?... Aha! I see ... 

Right. I’ll catch him. 

A COLLISION ENSUES 

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