Mr Bloom was all at sea for a moment, seeing the others evidently eavesdropping too.
— He’s Irish, the seaman bold affirmed, staring still in much the same way and nodding. All Irish.
— All too Irish, Stephen rejoined.
As for Mr Bloom he could neither make head or tail of the whole business and he was just asking himself what possible connection when the sailor, of his own accord, turned to the other occupants of the shelter with the remark :
— I seen him shoot two eggs off two bottles at fifty yards over his shoulder. The left hand dead shot.
Though he was slightly hampered by an occasional stammer and his gestures being also clumsy as it was still he did his best to explain.
— Bottle Out there, say. Fifty yards measured. Eggs on the bottles. Cocks his gun over his shoulder. Aims.
He turned his body half round, shut up his right eye completely, then he screwed his features up some way sideways and glared out into the night with an unprepossessing cast of countenance.
— Pom, he then shouted once.
The entire audience waited, anticipating an additional detonation, there being still a further egg.
— Pom, he shouted twice.
—Egg two evidently demolished, he nodded and winked, adding bloodthirstily:
—Buffalo Bill shoots to kill,
Never missed nor he never will.
A silence ensued till Mr Bloom for agreeableness’ sake just felt like asking him whether it was for a marksmanship competition like the Bisley.
— Beg pardon, the sailor said.
— Long ago? Mr Bloom pursued without flinching a hairsbreadth.
— Why, the sailor replied, relaxing to a certain extent under the magic influence of diamond cut diamond, it might be a matter of ten years. He toured the wide world with Hengler’s Royal Circus. I seen him do that in Stockholm.
— Curious coincidence, Mr Bloom confided to Stephen unobtrusively.
— Murphy’s my name, the sailor continued, W. B. Murphy, of Carrigaloe. Know where that is?
