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She is drowning. Agenbite. Save her. Agenbite. All
against us. She will drown me with her, eyes and hair. Lank
coils of seaweed hair around me, my heart, my soul. Salt
green death.
We.
Agenbite of inwit. Inwit’s agenbite.
Misery! Misery!
—Hello, Simon, Father Cowley said. How are things?
—Hello, Bob, old man, Mr Dedalus answered, stopping.
They clasped hands loudly outside Reddy and Daugh-
ter’s. Father Cowley brushed his moustache often downward
with a scooping hand.
—What’s the best news? Mr Dedalus said.
—Why then not much, Father Cowley said. I’m barri-
caded up, Simon, with two men prowling around the house
trying to effect an entrance.
—Jolly, Mr Dedalus said. Who is it?
—O, Father Cowley said. A certain gombeen man of our
acquaintance.
—With a broken back, is it? Mr Dedalus asked.
—The same, Simon, Father Cowley answered. Reuben of
that ilk. I’m just waiting for Ben Dollard. He’s going to say a
word to long John to get him to take those two men off. All
I want is a little time.
He looked with vague hope up and down the quay, a big
apple bulging in his neck.
—I know, Mr Dedalus said, nodding. Poor old bockedy