Ulysses
fellow balked me this morning with that horsey woman.
Same style of beauty. Quick of him all the same. The stiff
walk. True word spoken in jest. That awful cramp in Lad
lane. Something poisonous I ate. Emblem of luck. Why?
Probably lost cattle. Mark of the beast. (He closes his eyes an
instant) Bit light in the head. Monthly or effect of the other.
Brainfogfag. That tired feeling. Too much for me now. Ow!
(A sinister figure leans on plaited legs against o’beirne’s
wall, a visage unknown, injected with dark mercury. From
under a wideleaved sombrero the figure regards him with
evil eye.)
BLOOM: Buenas noches, señorita Blanca, que calle es
esta?
THE FIGURE: (Impassive, raises a signal arm) Password.
Sraid Mabbot.
BLOOM: Haha. Merci. Esperanto. Slan leath. (He mut-
ters) Gaelic league spy, sent by that fireeater.
(He steps forward. A sackshouldered ragman bars his
path. He steps left, ragsackman left.)
BLOOM: I beg. (He swerves, sidles, stepaside, slips past
and on.)
BLOOM: Keep to the right, right, right. If there is a sign-
post planted by the Touring Club at Stepaside who procured
that public boon? I who lost my way and contributed to the
columns of the Irish Cyclist the letter headed In darkest
Stepaside. Keep, keep, keep to the right. Rags and bones at
midnight. A fence more likely. First place murderer makes
for. Wash off his sins of the world.
(Jacky Caffrey, hunted by Tommy Caffrey, runs full tilt