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– Peaks, Ned Lambert went on, towering high on high, to bathe our souls, as it were…
– Bathe his lips, Mr Dedalus said. Blessed and eternal God! Yes? Is he taking anything for it?
– As 'twere, in the peerless panorama of Ireland's portfolio, unmatched, despite their wellpraised prototypes in other vaunted prize regions, for very beauty, of bosky grove and undulating plain and luscious pastureland of vernal green, steeped in the transcendent translucent glow of our mild mysterious Irish twilight…
HIS NATIVE DORIC
– The moon, professor MacHugh said. He forgot Hamlet.
– That mantles the vista far and wide and wait till the glowing orb of the moon shine forth to irradiate her silver effulgence…
– O! Mr Dedalus cried, giving vent to a hopeless groan. Shite and onions! That'll do, Ned. Life is too short.
He took off his silk hat and, blowing out impatiently his bushy moustache, welshcombed his hair with raking fingers.
Ned Lambert tossed the newspaper aside, chuckling with delight. An instant after a hoarse bark of laughter burst over professor MacHugh's unshaven blackspectacled face.
– Doughy Daw! he cried.
WHAT WETHERUP SAID
All very fine to jeer at it now in cold print but it goes down like hot cake that stuff. He was in the bakery line too, wasn't he? Why they call him Doughy Daw. Feathered his nest well anyhow. Daughter engaged to that chap in the inland revenue office with the motor. Hooked that nicely. Entertainments. Open house. Big blowout. Wetherup always said that. Get a grip of them by the stomach.
The inner door was opened violently and a scarlet beaked face, crested by a comb of feathery hair, thrust itself in. The bold blue eyes stared about them and the harsh voice asked:
– What is it?
– And here comes the sham squire himself! professor MacHugh said grandly.
– Getonouthat, you bloody old pedagogue! the editor said in recognition.
– Come, Ned, Mr Dedalus said, putting on his hat. I must get a drink after that.
– Drink! the editor cried. No drinks served before mass.
– Quite right too, Mr Dedalus said, going out. Come on, Ned.
Ned Lambert sidled down from the table. The editor's blue eyes roved towards Mr Bloom's face, shadowed by a smile.
– Will you join us, Myles? Ned Lambert asked.
MEMORABLE BATTLES RECALLED
– North Cork militia! the editor cried, striding to the mantelpiece. We won every time! North Cork and Spanish officers!
– Where was that, Myles? Ned Lambert asked with a reflective glance at his toecaps.
– In Ohio! the editor shouted.
– So it was, begad, Ned Lambert agreed.
Passing out he whispered to J. J. O'Molloy:
– Incipient jigs. Sad case.
– Ohio! the editor crowed in high treble from his uplifted scarlet face. My Ohio!
– A perfect cretic! the professor said. Long, short and long.
O, HARP EOLIAN!
He took a reel of dental floss from his waistcoat pocket and, breaking off a piece, twanged it smartly between two and two of his resonant unwashed teeth.
– Bingbang, bangbang.
Mr Bloom, seeing the coast clear, made for the inner door.
– Just a moment, Mr Crawford, he said. I just want to phone about an ad.
He went in.
– What about that leader this evening? professor MacHugh asked, coming to the editor and laying a firm hand on his shoulder.
– That'll be all right, Myles Crawford said more calmly. Never you fret. Hello, Jack. That's all right.
– Good day, Myles, J. J. O'Molloy said, letting the pages he held slip limply back on the file. Is that Canada swindle case on today?
The telephone whirred inside.
– Twentyeight… No, twenty… Double four… Yes.
SPOT THE WINNER
Lenehan came out of the inner office with Sport's tissues.
– Who wants a dead cert for the Gold cup? he asked. Sceptre with O. Madden up.
He tossed the tissues on to the table.
Screams of newsboys barefoot in the hall rushed near and the door was flung open.
– Hush, Lenehan said. I hear feetstoops.
Professor MacHugh strode across the room and seized the cringing urchin by the collar as the others scampered out of the hall and down the steps. The tissues rustled up in the draught, floated softly in the air blue scrawls and under the table came to earth.
– It wasn't me, sir. It was the big fellow shoved me, sir.
– Throw him out and shut the door, the editor said. There's a hurricane blowing.
Lenehan began to paw the tissues up from the floor, grunting as he stooped twice.
– Waiting for the racing special, sir, the newsboy said. It was Pat Farrell shoved me, sir.
He pointed to two faces peering in round the doorframe.
– Him, sir.
– Out of this with you, professor MacHugh said gruffly.
He hustled the boy out and banged the door to.
J. J. O'Molloy turned the files crackingly over, murmuring, seeking:
– Continued on page six, column four.
– Yes, Evening Telegraph here, Mr Bloom phoned from the inner office. Is the boss…? Yes, Telegraph… To where? Aha! Which auction rooms?.. Aha! I see… Right. I'll catch him.
A COLLISION ENSUES
The bell whirred again as he rang off. He came in quickly and bumped against Lenehan who was struggling up with the second tissue.
– Pardon, monsieur, Lenehan said, clutching him for an instant and making a grimace.
– My fault, Mr Bloom said, suffering his grip. Are you hurt? I'm in a hurry.
– Knee, Lenehan said.
He made a comic face and whined, rubbing his knee:
– The accumulation of the anno Domini.
– Sorry, Mr Bloom said.
He went to the door and, holding it ajar, paused. J. J. O'Molloy slapped the heavy pages over. The noise of two shrill voices, a mouthorgan, echoed in the bare hallway from the newsboys squatted on the doorsteps:
We are the boys of Wexford
Who fought with heart and hand.
EXIT BLOOM
– I'm just running round to Bachelor's walk, Mr Bloom said, about this ad of Keyes's. Want to fix it up. They tell me he's round there in Dillon's.
He looked indecisively for a moment at their faces. The editor who, leaning against the mantelshelf, had propped his head on his hand, suddenly stretched forth an arm amply.
– Begone! he said. The world is before you.
– Back in no time, Mr Bloom said, hurrying out.
J. J. O'Molloy took the tissues from Lenehan's hand and read them, blowing them apart gently, without comment.
– He'll get that advertisement, the professor said, staring through his blackrimmed spectacles over the crossblind. Look at the young scamps after him.
– Show. Where? Lenehan cried, running to the window.
A STREET CORTÈGE
Both smiled over the crossblind at the file of capering newsboys in Mr Bloom's wake, the last zigzagging white on the breeze a mocking kite, a tail of white bowknots.
– Look at the young guttersnipe behind him hue and cry, Lenehan said, and you'll kick. O, my rib risible! Taking off his flat spaugs and the walk. Small nines. Steal upon larks.
He began to mazurka in swift caricature across the floor on sliding feet past the fireplace to J. J. O'Molloy who placed the tissues in his receiving hands.
– What's that? Myles Crawford said with a start. Where are the other two gone?
– Who? the professor said, turning. They're gone round to the Oval for a drink. Paddy Hooper is there with Jack Hall. Came over last night.
– Come on then, Myles Crawford said. Where's my hat?
He walked jerkily into the office behind, parting the vent of his jacket, jingling his keys in his back pocket. They jingled then in the air and against the wood as he locked his desk drawer.
– He's pretty well on, professor MacHugh said in a low voice.
– Seems to be, J. J. O'Molloy said, taking out a cigarettecase in murmuring meditation, but it is not always as it seems. Who has the most matches?
THE CALUMET OF PEACE
He offered a cigarette to the professor and took one himself. Lenehan promptly struck a match for them and lit their cigarettes in turn. J. J. O'Molloy opened his case again and offered it.
– Thanky vous, Lenehan said, helping himself.
The editor came from the inner office, a straw hat awry on his brow. He declaimed in song, pointing sternly at professor MacHugh:
'Twas rank and fame that tempted thee,
'Twas empire charmed thy heart.
The professor grinned, locking his long lips.
– Eh? You bloody old Roman empire? Myles Crawford said.
He took a cigarette from the open case. Lenehan, lighting it for him with quick grace, said:
– Silence for my brandnew riddle!
– Imperium romanum, J. J. O'Molloy said gently. It sounds nobler than British or Brixton. The word reminds one somehow of fat in the fire.
Myles Crawford blew his first puff violently towards the ceiling.
– That's it, he said. We are the fat. You and I are the fat in the fire. We haven't got the chance of a snowball in hell.
