Page:Ulysses, 1922.djvu/91

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88
 

        Tom Kernan was immense last night, he said. And Paddy Leonard
taking him off to his face.
        O draw him out, Martin, Mr Power said eagerly. Wait till you hear
him, Simon, on Ben Dollard’s singing of The Croppy Boy.
        Immense, Martin Cunningham said pompously. His singing of that
simple ballad, Martin, is the most trenchant rendering I ever heard in the whole
course of my experience.
        Trenchant, Mr Power said laughing. He’s dead nuts on that. And the
retrospective arrangement.
        Did you read Dan Dawson’s speech? Martin Cunningham asked.
        I did not then, Mr Dedalus said. Where is it?
        In the paper this morning.
       Mr Bloom took the paper from his inside pocket. That book I must
change for her.
        No, no, Mr Dedalus said quickly. Later on, please.
Mr Bloom’s glance travelled down the edge of the paper, scanning the deaths.
Callan, Coleman, Dignam, Fawcett, Lowry, Naumann, Peake, what Peake is
that? is it the chap was in Crosbie and Alleyne’s? no, Sexton, Urbright. Inked
characters fast fading on the frayed breaking paper. Thanks to the Little Flower.
Sadly missed. To the inexpressible grief of his. Aged 88 after a long and tedious
illness. Month’s mind Quinlan. On whose soul Sweet Jesus have mercy.

                         It is now a month since dear Henry fled
                         To his home up above in the sky
                         While his family weeps and mourns his loss
                         Hoping some day to meet him on high.

       I tore up the envelope? Yes. Where did I put her letter after I read it in
the bath? He patted his waistcoat pocket. There all right. Dear Henry fled.
Before my patience are exhausted.
       National school. Meade’s yard. The hazard. Only two there now.
Nodding. Full as a tick. Too much bone in their skulls. The other trotting
round with a fare. An hour ago I was passing there. The jarvies raised their
hats.
       A pointsman’s back straightened itself upright suddenly against a tramway
standard by Mr Bloom’s window. Couldn’t they invent something automatic