Dedalus’ daughter there still outside Dillon’s auctionrooms. Must be selling off
some old furniture. Knew her eyes at once from the father. Lobbing about
waiting for him. Home always breaks up when the mother goes. Fifteen
children he had. Birth every year almost. That’s in their theology or the
priest won’t give the poor woman the confession, the absolution. Increase and
multiply. Did you ever hear such an idea? Eat you out of house and home.
No families themselves to feed. Living on the fat of the land. Their butteries
and larders. I’d like to see them do the black fast Yom Kippur. Crossbuns. One
meal and a collation for fear he’d collapse on the altar. A housekeeper of one
of those fellows if you could pick it out of her. Never pick it out of her.
Like getting L. s. d. out of him. Does himself well. No guests. All for number
one. Watching his water. Bring your own bread and butter. His reverence
mum’s the word.
Good Lord, that poor child’s dress is in flitters. Underfed she looks too.
Potatoes and marge, marge and potatoes. It’s after they feel it. Proof of the
pudding. Undermines the constitution.
As he set foot on O’Connell bridge a puffball of smoke plumed up from
the parapet. Brewery barge with export stout. England. Sea air sours it, I
heard. Be interesting some day get a pass through Hancock to see the brewery.
Regular world in itself. Vats of porter, wonderful. Rats get in too. Drink
themselves bloated as big as a collie floating. Dead drunk on the porter. Drink
till they puke again like christians. Imagine drinking that! Rats : vats. Well
of course if we knew all the things.
Looking down he saw flapping strongly, wheeling between the gaunt
quay walls, gulls. Rough weather outside. If I threw myself down? Reuben
J’s son must have swallowed a good bellyful of that sewage. One and
eightpence too much. Hhhhm. It’s the droll way he comes out with the things.
Knows how to tell a story too.
They wheeled lower. Looking for grub. Wait.
He threw down among them a crumpled paper ball. Elijah thirtytwo feet
per sec is com. Not a bit. The ball bobbed unheeded on the wake of swells,
floated under by the bridge piers. Not such damn fools. Also the day
I threw that stale cake out of the Erin’s King picked it up in the wake fifty
yards astern. Live by their wits. They wheeled, flapping.
The hungry famished gull.
Flaps o’er the waters dull.