Ulysses
Ireland, John Wyse Nolan answered from the stairfoot.* * * * *
As they trod across the thick carpet Buck Mulligan whis-
pered behind his Panama to Haines:
—Parnell’s brother. There in the corner.
They chose a small table near the window, opposite a
longfaced man whose beard and gaze hung intently down
on a chessboard.
—Is that he? Haines asked, twisting round in his seat.
—Yes, Mulligan said. That’s John Howard, his brother,
our city marshal.
John Howard Parnell translated a white bishop quietly
and his grey claw went up again to his forehead whereat it
rested. An instant after, under its screen, his eyes looked
quickly, ghostbright, at his foe and fell once more upon a
working corner.
—I’ll take a mélange, Haines said to the waitress.
—Two mélanges, Buck Mulligan said. And bring us some
scones and butter and some cakes as well.
When she had gone he said, laughing:
—We call it D.B.C. because they have damn bad cakes.
O, but you missed Dedalus on Hamlet.
Haines opened his newbought book.
—I’m sorry, he said. Shakespeare is the happy hunting-
ground of all minds that have lost their balance.
The onelegged sailor growled at the area of 14 Nelson
street:
—England expects ...