ULYSSES (The Original 1922 Edition). James Joyce

jokes are getting a bit damp. Great card he was. Waltzing in Stamer street with Ignatius Gallaher on a Sunday morning, the landlady’s two hats pinned on his head. Out on the rampage all night. Beginning to tell on him now : that backache of his, I fear. Wife ironing his back. Thinks he’ll cure it with pills. All breadcrumbs they are. About six hundred per cent profit.

      — He’s in with a lowdown crowd, Mr Dedalus snarled. That Mulligan is a contaminated bloody doubledyed ruffian by all accounts. His name stinks all over Dublin. But with the help of God and His blessed mother I’Il make it my business to write a letter one of those days to his mother or his aunt or whatever she is that will open her eye as wide as a gate. I’Il tickle his catastrophe, believe you me.

      He cried above the clatter of the wheels.

      — I won’t have her bastard of a nephew ruin my son. A counterjumper’s son. Selling tapes in my cousin, Peter Paul M’Swiney’s. Not likely.

      He ceased. Mr Bloom glanced from his angry moustache to Mr Power’s mild face and Martin Cunningham’s eyes and beard, gravely shaking. Noisy selfwilled man. Full of his son. He is right. Something to hand on. If little Rudy had lived. See him grow up. Hear his voice in the house. Walking beside Molly in an Eton suit. My son. Me in his eyes. Strange feeling it would be. From me. Just a chance. Must have been that morning in Raymond terrace she was at the window, watching the two dogs at it by the wall of the cease to do evil. And the sergeant grinning up. She had that cream gown on with the rip she never stitched. Give us a touch, Poldy. God, I’m dying for it. How life begins.

      Got big then. Had to refuse the Greystones concert. My son inside her. I could have helped him on in life. I could. Make him independent. Learn German too.

      — Are we late? Mr Power asked.

      — Ten minutes, Martin Cunningham said, looking at his watch.

      Molly. Milly. Same thing watered down. Her tomboy oaths. O jumping Jupiter! Ye gods and little fishes! Still, she’s a dear girl. Soon be a woman. Mullingar. Dearest Papli. Young student. Yes, yes : a woman too. Life. Life.

      The carriage heeled over and back, their four trunks swaying.

      — Corny might have given us a more commodious yoke, Mr Power said.

      — He might, Mr Dedalus said, if he hadn’t that squint troubling him. Do you follow me?

      He closed his left eye. Martin Cunningham began to brush away crustcrumbs from under his thighs.

      — What is this? he said, in the name of God? Crumbs?

      — Someone seems to have been making a picnic party here lately, Mr Power said.

      All raised their thighs, eyed with disfavour the mildewed buttonless leather of the seats. Mr Dedalus, twisting his nose, frowned downward and said : — Unless I’m greatly mistaken. What do you think, Martin?

      — It struck me too, Martin Cunningham said.

      Mr Bloom set his thigh down. Glad I took that bath. Feel my feet quite clean. But I wish Mrs Fleming had darned these socks better.

      Mr Dedalus sighed resignedly.

      — After all, he said, it’s the most natural thing in the world.

      — Did Tom Kernan turn up? Martin Cunningham asked, twirling the peak of his beard gently.

      — Yes, Mr Bloom answered. He’s behind with Ned Lambert and Hynes.

      — And Corny Kelleher himself? Mr Power asked.

      — At the cemetery, Martin Cunningham said.

      — I met M’Coy this morning, Mr Bloom said. He said he’d try to come.

      The carriage halted short.

      — What’s wrong?

      — We’re stopped.

      — Where are we?

      Mr Bloom put his head out of the window.

      — The grand canal, he said.

      Gasworks. Whooping cough they say it cures. Good job Milly never got it. Poor children! Doubles them up black and blue in convulsions. Shame really. Got off lightly with illness compared. Only measles. Flaxseed tea. Scarlatina, influenza epidemics. Canvassing for death. Don’t miss this chance. Dogs’ home over there. Poor old Athos! Be good to Athos, Leopold, is my last wish. Thy will be done. We obey them in the grave. A dying scrawl. He took it to heart, pined away. Quiet brute. Old men’s dogs usually are.

      A raindrop spat on his hat. He drew back and saw an instant of shower spray dots over the grey flags. Apart. Curious. Like through a colander. I thought it would. My boots were creaking I remember now.

      — The weather is changing, he said quietly.

      — A pity it did not keep up fine, Martin Cunningham said.

      — Wanted for the country, Mr Power said. There’s the sun again coming out.

      Mr Dedalus, peering through his glasses towards the veiled sun, hurled a mute curse at the sky.

      — It’s as uncertain as a child’s bottom, he said.

      — We’re off again.

      The carriage turned again its stiff wheels and their trunks swayed gently. Martin Cunningham twirled more quickly the peak of his beard.

      — Tom Kernan was immense last night, he said. And Paddy Leonard taking him off to his face.

      — O draw him out, Martin, Mr Power said eagerly. Wait till you hear him, Simon, on Ben Dollard’s singing of The Croppy Boy.

      — Immense, Martin Cunningham said pompously. His singing of that simple ballad, Martin, is the most trenchant rendering I ever heard in the whole course of my experience.

      — Trenchant, Mr Power said laughing. He’s dead nuts on that. And the retrospective arrangement.

      — Did you read Dan Dawson’s speech? Martin Cunningham asked.

      — I did not then, Mr Dedalus said. Where is it?

      — In the paper this morning.

      Mr Bloom took the paper from his inside pocket. That book I must change for her.

      — No, no, Mr Dedalus said quickly. Later on, please. Mr Bloom’s glance travelled down the edge of the paper, scanning the deaths. Callan, Coleman, Dignam, Fawcett, Lowry, Naumann, Peake, what Peake is that? is it the chap was in Crosbie and Alleyne’s? no, Sexton, Urbright. Inked characters fast fading on the frayed breaking paper. Thanks to the Little Flower. Sadly missed. To the inexpressible grief of his. Aged 88 after a long and tedious illness. Month’s mind Quinlan. On whose soul Sweet Jesus have mercy.

      It is now a month since dear Henry fled

      To his home up above in the sky

      While his family weeps and mourns his loss

      Hoping some day to meet him on high.

      I tore up the envelope? Yes. Where did I put her letter after I read it in the bath? He patted his waistcoat pocket. There all right. Dear Henry fled. Before my patience are exhausted.

      National school. Meade’s yard. The hazard. Only two there now. Nodding. Full as a tick. Too much bone in their skulls. The other trotting round with a fare. An hour ago I was passing there. The jarvies raised their hats.

      A pointsman’s back straightened itself upright suddenly against a tramway standard by Mr Bloom’s window. Couldn’t they invent something automatic so that the wheel itself much handler? Well but that fellow would lose his job then? Well but then another fellow would get a job making the new invention?

      Antient concert rooms. Nothing on there. A man in a buff suit with a crape armlet. Not much grief there. Quarter mourning. People in law, perhaps.

      They