Ulysses Part 87

--Very, Mr Dedalus said, staring hard at a headless sardine.

Under the sandwichbell lay on a bier of bread one last, one lonely, last sardine of summer. Bloom alone.

--Very, he stared. The lower register, for choice.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Bloom went by Barry's. Wish I could. Wait. That wonderworker if I had.

Twentyfour solicitors in that one house. Counted them. Litigation. Love one another. Piles of parchment. Messrs Pick and Pocket have power of attorney. Goulding, Collis, Ward.

But for example the chap that wallops the big drum. His vocation: Mickey Rooney's band. Wonder how it first struck him. Sitting at home after pig's cheek and cabbage nursing it in the armchair. Rehearsing his band part. Pom. Pompedy. Jolly for the wife. a.s.ses' skins. Welt them through life, then wallop after death. Pom. Wallop. Seems to be what you call yashmak or I mean kismet. Fate.

Tap. Tap. A stripling, blind, with a tapping cane came taptaptapping by Daly's window where a mermaid hair all streaming (but he couldn't see) blew whiffs of a mermaid (blind couldn't), mermaid, coolest whiff of all.

Instruments. A blade of gra.s.s, sh.e.l.l of her hands, then blow. Even comb and tissuepaper you can knock a tune out of. Molly in her s.h.i.+ft in Lombard street west, hair down. I suppose each kind of trade made its own, don't you see? Hunter with a horn. Haw. Have you the? _Cloche.

Sonnez la._ Shepherd his pipe. Pwee little wee. Policeman a whistle.

Locks and keys! Sweep! Four o'clock's all's well! Sleep! All is lost now. Drum? Pompedy. Wait. I know. Towncrier, b.u.mbailiff. Long John.

Waken the dead. Pom. Dignam. Poor little _nominedomine._ Pom. It is music. I mean of course it's all pom pom pom very much what they call _da capo._ Still you can hear. As we march, we march along, march along.

Pom.

I must really. Fff. Now if I did that at a banquet. Just a question of custom shah of Persia. Breathe a prayer, drop a tear. All the same he must have been a bit of a natural not to see it was a yeoman cap.

m.u.f.fled up. Wonder who was that chap at the grave in the brown macin. O, the wh.o.r.e of the lane!

A frowsy wh.o.r.e with black straw sailor hat askew came glazily in the day along the quay towards Mr Bloom. When first he saw that form endearing?

Yes, it is. I feel so lonely. Wet night in the lane. Horn. Who had the? Heehaw shesaw. Off her beat here. What is she? Hope she. Psst! Any chance of your wash. Knew Molly. Had me decked. Stout lady does be with you in the brown costume. Put you off your stroke, that. Appointment we made knowing we'd never, well hardly ever. Too dear too near to home sweet home. Sees me, does she? Looks a fright in the day. Face like dip.

d.a.m.n her. O, well, she has to live like the rest. Look in here.

In Lionel Marks's antique saleshop window haughty Henry Lionel Leopold dear Henry Flower earnestly Mr Leopold Bloom envisaged battered candlesticks melodeon oozing maggoty blowbags. Bargain: six bob. Might learn to play. Cheap. Let her pa.s.s. Course everything is dear if you don't want it. That's what good salesman is. Make you buy what he wants to sell. Chap sold me the Swedish razor he shaved me with. Wanted to charge me for the edge he gave it. She's pa.s.sing now. Six bob.

Must be the cider or perhaps the burgund.

Near bronze from anear near gold from afar they c.h.i.n.ked their clinking gla.s.ses all, brighteyed and gallant, before bronze Lydia's tempting last rose of summer, rose of Castile. First Lid, De, Cow, Ker, Doll, a fifth: Lidwell, Si Dedalus, Bob Cowley, Kernan and big Ben Dollard.

Tap. A youth entered a lonely Ormond hall.

Bloom viewed a gallant pictured hero in Lionel Marks's window. Robert Emmet's last words. Seven last words. Of Meyerbeer that is.

--True men like you men.

--Ay, ay, Ben.

--Will lift your gla.s.s with us.

They lifted.

Tsc.h.i.n.k. Tschunk.

Tip. An unseeing stripling stood in the door. He saw not bronze. He saw not gold. Nor Ben nor Bob nor Tom nor Si nor George nor tanks nor Richie nor Pat. Hee hee hee hee. He did not see.

Seabloom, greaseabloom viewed last words. Softly. _When my country takes her place among._

Prrprr.

Must be the bur.

Fff! Oo. Rrpr.

_Nations of the earth._ No-one behind. She's pa.s.sed. _Then and not till then._ Tram kran kran kran. Good oppor. Coming. Krandlkrankran. I'm sure it's the burgund. Yes. One, two. _Let my epitaph be._ Kraaaaaa.

_Written. I have._

Pprrpffrrppffff.

_Done._

I was just pa.s.sing the time of day with old Troy of the D. M. P. at the corner of Arbour hill there and be d.a.m.ned but a b.l.o.o.d.y sweep came along and he near drove his gear into my eye. I turned around to let him have the weight of my tongue when who should I see dodging along Stony Batter only Joe Hynes.

--Lo, Joe, says I. How are you blowing? Did you see that b.l.o.o.d.y chimneysweep near shove my eye out with his brush?

--Soot's luck, says Joe. Who's the old ballocks you were talking to?

--Old Troy, says I, was in the force. I'm on two minds not to give that fellow in charge for obstructing the thoroughfare with his brooms and ladders.

--What are you doing round those parts? says Joe.

--Devil a much, says I. There's a b.l.o.o.d.y big foxy thief beyond by the garrison church at the corner of Chicken lane--old Troy was just giving me a wrinkle about him--lifted any G.o.d's quant.i.ty of tea and sugar to pay three bob a week said he had a farm in the county Down off a hop-of-my-thumb by the name of Moses Herzog over there near Heytesbury street.

--Circ.u.mcised? says Joe.

--Ay, says I. A bit off the top. An old plumber named Geraghty. I'm hanging on to his taw now for the past fortnight and I can't get a penny out of him.

--That the lay you're on now? says Joe.

--Ay, says I. How are the mighty fallen! Collector of bad and doubtful debts. But that's the most notorious b.l.o.o.d.y robber you'd meet in a day's walk and the face on him all pockmarks would hold a shower of rain.

_Tell him,_ says he, _I dare him,_ says he, _and I doubledare him to send you round here again or if he does,_ says he, _I'll have him summonsed up before the court, so I will, for trading without a licence._ And he after stuffing himself till he's fit to burst. Jesus, I had to laugh at the little jewy getting his s.h.i.+rt out. _He drink me my teas. He eat me my sugars. Because he no pay me my moneys?_

For nonperishable goods bought of Moses Herzog, of 13 Saint Kevin's parade in the city of Dublin, Wood quay ward, merchant, hereinafter called the vendor, and sold and delivered to Michael E. Geraghty, esquire, of 29 Arbour hill in the city of Dublin, Arran quay ward, gentleman, hereinafter called the purchaser, videlicet, five pounds avoirdupois of first choice tea at three s.h.i.+llings and no pence per pound avoirdupois and three stone avoirdupois of sugar, crushed crystal, at threepence per pound avoirdupois, the said purchaser debtor to the said vendor of one pound five s.h.i.+llings and sixpence sterling for value received which amount shall be paid by said purchaser to said vendor in weekly instalments every seven calendar days of three s.h.i.+llings and no pence sterling: and the said nonperishable goods shall not be p.a.w.ned or pledged or sold or otherwise alienated by the said purchaser but shall be and remain and be held to be the sole and exclusive property of the said vendor to be disposed of at his good will and pleasure until the said amount shall have been duly paid by the said purchaser to the said vendor in the manner herein set forth as this day hereby agreed between the said vendor, his heirs, successors, trustees and a.s.signs of the one part and the said purchaser, his heirs, successors, trustees and a.s.signs of the other part.

--Are you a strict t.t.? says Joe.

--Not taking anything between drinks, says I.

--What about paying our respects to our friend? says Joe.

--Who? says I. Sure, he's out in John of G.o.d's off his head, poor man.

--Drinking his own stuff? says Joe.