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—We are going the pace, I think, Martin Cunningham
said.
—God grant he doesn’t upset us on the road, Mr
Power said.
—I hope not, Martin Cunningham said. That will be a
great race tomorrow in Germany. The Gordon Bennett.
—Yes, by Jove, Mr Dedalus said. That will be worth
seeing, faith.
As they turned into Berkeley street a streetorgan near
the Basin sent over and after them a rollicking rattling
song of the halls. Has anybody here seen Kelly? Kay ee
double ell wy. Dead March from Saul. He’s as bad as old
Antonio. He left me on my ownio. Pirouette! The Mater
Misericordiae. Eccles street. My house down there. Big
place. Ward for incurables there. Very encouraging. Our
Lady’s Hospice for the dying. Deadhouse handy
underneath. Where old Mrs Riordan died. They look
terrible the women. Her feeding cup and rubbing her
mouth with the spoon. Then the screen round her bed for
her to die. Nice young student that was dressed that bite
the bee gave me. He’s gone over to the lying-in hospital
they told me. From one extreme to the other. The
carriage galloped round a corner: stopped.
—What’s wrong now?
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A divided drove of branded cattle passed the windows,
lowing, slouching by on padded hoofs, whisking their tails
slowly on their clotted bony croups. Outside them and
through them ran raddled sheep bleating their fear.
—Emigrants, Mr Power said.
—Huuuh! the drover’s voice cried, his switch sounding
on their flanks.
Huuuh! out of that!
Thursday, of course. Tomorrow is killing day.
Springers. Cuffe sold them about twentyseven quid each.
For Liverpool probably. Roastbeef for old England. They
buy up all the juicy ones. And then the fifth quarter lost:
all that raw stuff, hide, hair, horns. Comes to a big thing in
a year. Dead meat trade. Byproducts of the
slaughterhouses for tanneries, soap, margarine. Wonder if
that dodge works now getting dicky meat off the train at
Clonsilla.
The carriage moved on through the drove.
—I can’t make out why the corporation doesn’t run a
tramline from the parkgate to the quays, Mr Bloom said.
All those animals could be taken in trucks down to the
boats.
—Instead of blocking up the thoroughfare, Martin
Cunningham said. Quite right. They ought to.
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—Yes, Mr Bloom said, and another thing I often
thought, is to have municipal funeral trams like they have
in Milan, you know. Run the line out to the cemetery
gates and have special trams, hearse and carriage and all.
Don’t you see what I mean?
—O, that be damned for a story, Mr Dedalus said.
Pullman car and saloon diningroom.
—A poor lookout for Corny, Mr Power added.
—Why? Mr Bloom asked, turning to Mr Dedalus.
Wouldn’t it be more decent than galloping two abreast?
—Well, there’s something in that, Mr Dedalus granted.
—And, Martin Cunningham said, we wouldn’t have
scenes like that when the hearse capsized round Dunphy’s
and upset the coffin on to the road.
—That was terrible, Mr Power’s shocked face said, and
the corpse fell about the road. Terrible!
—First round Dunphy’s, Mr Dedalus said, nodding.
Gordon Bennett cup.
—Praises be to God! Martin Cunningham said piously.
Bom! Upset. A coffin bumped out on to the road.
Burst open. Paddy Dignam shot out and rolling over stiff
in the dust in a brown habit too large for him. Red face:
grey now. Mouth fallen open. Asking what’s up now.
Quite right to close it. Looks horrid open. Then the
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insides decompose quickly. Much better to close up all the
orifices. Yes, also. With wax. The sphincter loose. Seal up
all.
—Dunphy’s, Mr Power announced as the carriage
turned right.
Dunphy’s corner. Mourning coaches drawn up,
drowning their grief. A pause by the wayside. Tiptop
position for a pub. Expect we’ll pull up here on the way
back to drink his health. Pass round the consolation. Elixir
of life.
But suppose now it did happen. Would he bleed if a
nail say cut him in the knocking about? He would and he
wouldn’t, I suppose. Depends on where. The circulation
stops. Still some might ooze out of an artery. It would be
better to bury them in red: a dark red.
In silence they drove along Phibsborough road. An
empty hearse trotted by, coming from the cemetery: looks
relieved.
Crossguns bridge: the royal canal.
Water rushed roaring through the sluices. A man stood
on his dropping barge, between clamps of turf. On the
towpath by the lock a slacktethered horse. Aboard of the
Bugabu.
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Their eyes watched him. On the slow weedy waterway
he had floated on his raft coastward over Ireland drawn by
a haulage rope past beds of reeds, over slime, mudchoked
bottles, carrion dogs. Athlone, Mullingar, Moyvalley, I
could make a walking tour to see Milly by the canal. Or
cycle down. Hire some old crock, safety. Wren had one
the other day at the auction but a lady’s. Developing
waterways. James M’Cann’s hobby to row me o’er the
ferry. Cheaper transit. By easy stages. Houseboats.
Camping out. Also hearses. To heaven by water. Perhaps I
will without writing. Come as a surprise, Leixlip,
Clonsilla. Dropping down lock by lock to Dublin. With
turf from the midland bogs. Salute. He lifted his brown
straw hat, saluting Paddy Dignam.
They drove on past Brian Boroimhe house. Near it
now.
—I wonder how is our friend Fogarty getting on, Mr
Power said.
—Better ask Tom Kernan, Mr Dedalus said.
—How is that? Martin Cunningham said. Left him
weeping, I suppose?
—Though lost to sight, Mr Dedalus said, to memory
dear.
The carriage steered left for Finglas road.
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