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Come. Well sung. All clapped. She ought to. Come. To
me, to him, to her, you too, me, us.
—Bravo! Clapclap. Good man, Simon. Clappyclapclap.
Encore! Clapclipclap clap. Sound as a bell. Bravo, Simon!
Clapclopclap. Encore, enclap, said, cried, clapped all, Ben
Dollard, Lydia Douce, George Lidwell, Pat, Mina Kennedy,
two gentlemen with two tankards, Cowley, first gent with
tank and bronze miss Douce and gold MJiss Mina.
Blazes Boylan’s smart tan shoes creaked on the barfloor,
said before. Jingle by monuments of sir John Gray, Hora-
tio onehandled Nelson, reverend father Theobald Mathew,
jaunted, as said before just now. Atrot, in heat, heatseat-
ed. Cloche. Sonnez la. Cloche. Sonnez la. Slower the mare
went up the hill by the Rotunda, Rutland square. Too slow
for Boylan, blazes Boylan, impatience Boylan, joggled the
mare.
An afterclang of Cowley’s chords closed, died on the air
made richer.
And Richie Goulding drank his Power and Leopold
Bloom his cider drank, Lidwell his Guinness, second gen-
tleman said they would partake of two more tankards if she
did not mind. Miss Kennedy smirked, disserving, coral lips,
at first, at second. She did not mind.
—Seven days in jail, Ben Dollard said, on bread and wa-
ter. Then you’d sing, Simon, like a garden thrush.
Lionel Simon, singer, laughed. Father Bob Cowley played.
Mina Kennedy served. Second gentleman paid. Tom Ker-
nan strutted in. Lydia, admired, admired. But Bloom sang
dumb.