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—Yes, Mr Bloom said. They were both on the way to
the boat and he tried to drown ...
—Drown Barabbas! Mr Dedalus cried. I wish to Christ
he did!
Mr Power sent a long laugh down his shaded nostrils.
—No, Mr Bloom said, the son himself ...
Martin Cunningham thwarted his speech rudely:
—Reuben and the son were piking it down the quay
next the river on their way to the Isle of Man boat and the
young chiseller suddenly got loose and over the wall with
him into the Liffey.
—For God’s sake! Mr Dedalus exclaimed in fright. Is
he dead?
—Dead! Martin Cunningham cried. Not he! A
boatman got a pole and fished him out by the slack of the
breeches and he was landed up to the father on the quay
more dead than alive. Half the town was there.
—Yes, Mr Bloom said. But the funny part is ...
—And Reuben J, Martin Cunningham said, gave the
boatman a florin for saving his son’s life.
A stifled sigh came from under Mr Power’s hand.
—O, he did, Martin Cunningham affirmed. Like a
hero. A silver florin.
—Isn’t it awfully good? Mr Bloom said eagerly.
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—One and eightpence too much, Mr Dedalus said
drily.
Mr Power’s choked laugh burst quietly in the carriage.
Nelson’s pillar.
—Eight plums a penny! Eight for a penny!
—We had better look a little serious, Martin
Cunningham said.
Mr Dedalus sighed.
—Ah then indeed, he said, poor little Paddy wouldn’t
grudge us a laugh. Many a good one he told himself.
—The Lord forgive me! Mr Power said, wiping his wet
eyes with his fingers. Poor Paddy! I little thought a week
ago when I saw him last and he was in his usual health that
I’d be driving after him like this. He’s gone from us.
—As decent a little man as ever wore a hat, Mr
Dedalus said. He went very suddenly.
—Breakdown, Martin Cunningham said. Heart.
He tapped his chest sadly.
Blazing face: redhot. Too much John Barleycorn. Cure
for a red nose. Drink like the devil till it turns adelite. A
lot of money he spent colouring it.
Mr Power gazed at the passing houses with rueful
apprehension.
—He had a sudden death, poor fellow, he said.
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—The best death, Mr Bloom said.
Their wide open eyes looked at him.
—No suffering, he said. A moment and all is over. Like
dying in sleep.
No-one spoke.
Dead side of the street this. Dull business by day, land
agents, temperance hotel, Falconer’s railway guide, civil
service college, Gill’s, catholic club, the industrious blind.
Why? Some reason. Sun or wind. At night too.
Chummies and slaveys. Under the patronage of the late
Father Mathew. Foundation stone for Parnell. Breakdown.
Heart.
White horses with white frontlet plumes came round
the Rotunda corner, galloping. A tiny coffin flashed by. In
a hurry to bury. A mourning coach. Unmarried. Black for
the married. Piebald for bachelors. Dun for a nun.
—Sad, Martin Cunningham said. A child.
A dwarf’s face, mauve and wrinkled like little Rudy’s
was. Dwarf’s body, weak as putty, in a whitelined deal
box. Burial friendly society pays. Penny a week for a sod
of turf. Our. Little. Beggar. Baby. Meant nothing. Mistake
of nature. If it’s healthy it’s from the mother. If not from
the man. Better luck next time.
—Poor little thing, Mr Dedalus said. It’s well out of it.
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The carriage climbed more slowly the hill of Rutland
square. Rattle his bones. Over the stones. Only a pauper.
Nobody owns.
—In the midst of life, Martin Cunningham said.
—But the worst of all, Mr Power said, is the man who
takes his own life.
Martin Cunningham drew out his watch briskly,
coughed and put it back.
—The greatest disgrace to have in the family, Mr
Power added.
—Temporary insanity, of course, Martin Cunningham
said decisively. We must take a charitable view of it.
—They say a man who does it is a coward, Mr Dedalus
said.
—It is not for us to judge, Martin Cunningham said.
Mr Bloom, about to speak, closed his lips again. Martin
Cunningham’s large eyes. Looking away now.
Sympathetic human man he is. Intelligent. Like
Shakespeare’s face. Always a good word to say. They have
no mercy on that here or infanticide. Refuse christian
burial. They used to drive a stake of wood through his
heart in the grave. As if it wasn’t broken already. Yet
sometimes they repent too late. Found in the riverbed
clutching rushes. He looked at me. And that awful
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drunkard of a wife of his. Setting up house for her time
after time and then pawning the furniture on him every
Saturday almost. Leading him the life of the damned.
Wear the heart out of a stone, that. Monday morning.
Start afresh. Shoulder to the wheel. Lord, she must have
looked a sight that night Dedalus told me he was in there.
Drunk about the place and capering with Martin’s
umbrella.
And they call me the jewel of Asia,
Of Asia,
The Geisha.
He looked away from me. He knows. Rattle his bones.
That afternoon of the inquest. The redlabelled bottle
on the table. The room in the hotel with hunting pictures.
Stuffy it was. Sunlight through the slats of the Venetian
blind. The coroner’s sunlit ears, big and hairy. Boots
giving evidence. Thought he was asleep first. Then saw
like yellow streaks on his face. Had slipped down to the
foot of the bed. Verdict: overdose. Death by
misadventure. The letter. For my son Leopold.
No more pain. Wake no more. Nobody owns.
The carriage rattled swiftly along Blessington street.
Over the stones.
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