The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 056
He approached Larry O’Rourke’s. From the cellar grating floated up the
flabby gush of porter. Through the open doorway the bar squirted out whiffs
of ginger, teadust, biscuitmush. Good house, however : just the end of the city
traffic. For instance M’Auley’s down there : n. g. as position. Of course if they
ran a tramline along the North Circular from the cattle market to the quays
value would go up like a shot.
Bald head over the blind. Cute old codger. No use canvassing him for an
ad. Still he knows his own business best. There he Is, sure enough, my
bold Larry, leaning against the sugarbin in his shirtsleeves watching the
aproned curate swab up with mop and bucket. Simon Dedalus takes him off to
a tee with his eyes screwed up. Do you know what I’m going to tell you?
What’s that, Mr O’Rourke? Do you know what? The Russians, they’d only
be an eight o’clock breakfast for the Japanese.
Stop and say a word : about the funeral perhaps. Sad thing about poor
Dignam, Mr O’Rourke.
Turning into Dorset street he said freshly in greeting through the doorway :
— Good day, Mr O’Rourke.
— Good day to you.
— Lovely weather, sir.
— ’Tis all that.
Where do they get the money? Coming up redheaded curates from the
county Leitrim, rinsing empties and old man in the cellar. Then, lo and
behold, they blossom out as Adam Findlaters or Dan Tallons. Then think
of the competition. General thirst. Good puzzle would be cross Dublin without
passing a pub. Save it they can’t. Off the drunks perhaps. Put down three
and carry five. What is that? A bob here and there, dribs and drabs. On the
wholesale orders perhaps. Doing a double shuffle with the town travellers.
Square it with the boss and we’ll split the job, see?
How much would that tot to off the porter in the month? Say ten barrels
of stuff. Say he got ten per cent off. O more. Ten. Fifteen. He passed Saint
Joseph’s, National school. Brats’ clamour. Windows open. Fresh air helps
memory. Or a lilt. Ahbeesee defeegee kelomen opeecue rustyouvee double
you. Boys are they? Yes. Inishturk. Inishark. Inishboffin. At their joggerfry.
Mine. Slieve Bloom.
He halted before Dlugacz’s window, staring at the hanks of sausages,
polonies, black and white. Fifty multiplied by. The figures whitened in his
mind unsolved : displeased, he let them fade. The shiny links packed with