Улисс

           Theytellmehe’sroundthereinDillon’s.

           Helookedindecisivelyforamomentattheirfaces.Theeditorwho,leaningagainstthemantelshelf,hadproppedhisheadonhishand,suddenlystretchedforthanarmamply.

           —Begone!hesaid.Theworldisbeforeyou.

           —Backinnotime,MrBloomsaid,hurryingout.

           J.J.O’MolloytookthetissuesfromLenehan’shandandreadthem,blowingthemapartgently,withoutcomment.

           —He’llgetthatadvertisement,theprofessorsaid,staringthroughhisblackrimmedspectaclesoverthecrossblind.Lookattheyoungscampsafterhim.

           —Show.Where?Lenehancried,runningtothewindow.

           ASTREETCORTÈGE

           BothsmiledoverthecrossblindatthefileofcaperingnewsboysinMrBloom’swake,thelastzigzaggingwhiteonthebreezeamockingkite,atailofwhitebowknots.

           —Lookattheyoungguttersnipebehindhimhueandcry,Lenehansaid,andyou’llkick.O,myribrisible!Takingoffhisflatspaugsandthewalk.Smallnines.Stealuponlarks.

           HebegantomazurkainswiftcaricatureacrosstheflooronslidingfeetpastthefireplacetoJ.J.O’Molloywhoplacedthetissuesinhisreceivinghands.

           —What’sthat?MylesCrawfordsaidwithastart.Wherearetheothertwogone?

           —Who?theprofessorsaid,turning.They’regoneroundtotheOvalforadrink.PaddyHooperistherewithJackHall.Cameoverlastnight.

           —Comeonthen,MylesCrawfordsaid.Where’smyhat?

           Hewalkedjerkilyintotheofficebehind,partingtheventofhisjacket,jinglinghiskeysinhisbackpocket.Theyjingledthenintheairandagainstthewoodashelockedhisdeskdrawer.