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Ulysses 

260 

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 1305 

Mr Bloom, breathless, caught in a whirl of wild 

newsboys near the offices of the Irish Catholic and Dublin 

Penny Journal, called: 

—Mr Crawford! A moment! 

—Telegraph! Racing special! 

—What is it? Myles Crawford said, falling back a pace. 

A newsboy cried in Mr Bloom’s face: 

—Terrible tragedy in Rathmines! A child bit by a 

bellows! 

INTERVIEW WITH THE EDITOR 

—Just this ad, Mr Bloom said, pushing through 

towards the steps, puffing, and taking the cutting from his 

pocket. I spoke with Mr Keyes just now. He’ll give a 

renewal for two months, he says. After he’ll see. But he 

wants a par to call attention in the Telegraph too, the 

Saturday pink. And he wants it copied if it’s not too late I 

told councillor Nannetti from the Kilkenny People. I can 

have access to it in the national library. House of keys, 

don’t you see? His name is Keyes. It’s a play on the name. 

But he practically promised he’d give the renewal. But he 

wants just a little puff. What will I tell him, Mr Crawford? 

K.M.A. 

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—Will you tell him he can kiss my arse? Myles 

Crawford said throwing out his arm for emphasis. Tell 

him that straight from the stable. 

A bit nervy. Look out for squalls. All off for a drink. 

Arm in arm. Lenehan’s yachting cap on the cadge beyond. 

Usual blarney. Wonder is that young Dedalus the moving 

spirit. Has a good pair of boots on him today. Last time I 

saw him he had his heels on view. Been walking in muck 

somewhere. Careless chap. What was he doing in 

Irishtown? 

—Well, Mr Bloom said, his eyes returning, if I can get 

the design I suppose it’s worth a short par. He’d give the 

ad, I think. I’ll tell him ... 

K.M.R.I.A. 

—He can kiss my royal Irish arse, Myles Crawford 

cried loudly over his shoulder. Any time he likes, tell him. 

While Mr Bloom stood weighing the point and about 

to smile he strode on jerkily. 

RAISING THE WIND 

—Nulla bona, Jack, he said, raising his hand to his chin. 

I’m up to here. I’ve been through the hoop myself. I was 

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looking for a fellow to back a bill for me no later than last 

week. Sorry, Jack. You must take the will for the deed. 

With a heart and a half if I could raise the wind anyhow. 

J. J. O’Molloy pulled a long face and walked on 

silently. They caught up on the others and walked abreast. 

—When they have eaten the brawn and the bread and 

wiped their twenty fingers in the paper the bread was 

wrapped in they go nearer to the railings. 

—Something for you, the professor explained to Myles 

Crawford. Two old Dublin women on the top of Nelson’s 

pillar. 

SOME COLUMN!—THAT’S WHAT 

WADDLER ONE SAID 

—That’s new, Myles Crawford said. That’s copy. Out 

for the waxies Dargle. Two old trickies, what? 

—But they are afraid the pillar will fall, Stephen went 

on. They see the roofs and argue about where the 

different churches are: Rathmines’ blue dome, Adam and 

Eve’s, saint Laurence O’Toole’s. But it makes them giddy 

to look so they pull up their skirts ... 

THOSE SLIGHTLY RAMBUNCTIOUS 

FEMALES 

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—Easy all, Myles Crawford said. No poetic licence. 

We’re in the archdiocese here. 

—And settle down on their striped petticoats, peering 

up at the statue of the onehandled adulterer. 

—Onehandled adulterer! the professor cried. I like that. 

I see the idea. I see what you mean. 

DAMES DONATE DUBLIN’S CITS 

SPEEDPILLS VELOCITOUS 

AEROLITHS, BELIEF 

—It gives them a crick in their necks, Stephen said, and 

they are too tired to look up or down or to speak. They 

put the bag of plums between them and eat the plums out 

of it, one after another, wiping off with their 

handkerchiefs the plumjuice that dribbles out of their 

mouths and spitting the plumstones slowly out between 

the railings. 

He gave a sudden loud young laugh as a close. Lenehan 

and Mr O’Madden Burke, hearing, turned, beckoned and 

led on across towards Mooney’s. 

—Finished? Myles Crawford said. So long as they do 

no worse. 

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SOPHIST WALLOPS HAUGHTY 

HELEN SQUARE ON PROBOSCIS. 

SPARTANS GNASH MOLARS. 

ITHACANS VOW PEN IS CHAMP. 

—You remind me of Antisthenes, the professor said, a 

disciple of Gorgias, the sophist. It is said of him that none 

could tell if he were bitterer against others or against 

himself. He was the son of a noble and a bondwoman. 

And he wrote a book in which he took away the palm of 

beauty from Argive Helen and handed it to poor 

Penelope. 

Poor Penelope. Penelope Rich. 

They made ready to cross O’Connell street. 

HELLO THERE, CENTRAL! 

At various points along the eight lines tramcars with 

motionless trolleys stood in their tracks, bound for or from 

Rathmines, Rathfarnham, Blackrock, Kingstown and 

Dalkey, Sandymount Green, Ringsend and Sandymount 

Tower, Donnybrook, Palmerston Park and Upper 

Rathmines, all still, becalmed in short circuit. Hackney 

cars, cabs, delivery waggons, mailvans, private broughams, 

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