Улисс

           FivetallwhitehattedsandwichmenbetweenMonypeny’scornerandtheslabwhereWolfeTone’sstatuewasnot,eeledthemselvesturningH.E.L.Y.’Sandploddedbackastheyhadcome.

           ThenshestaredatthelargeposterofMarieKendall,charmingsoubrette,and,listlesslylolling,scribbledonthejottersixteensandcapitalesses.Mustardhairanddaubycheeks.She’snotnicelooking,isshe?Thewayshe’sholdingupherbitofaskirt.Wonderwillthatfellowbeatthebandtonight.IfIcouldgetthatdressmakertomakeaconcertinaskirtlikeSusyNagle’s.Theykickoutgrand.Shannonandalltheboatclubswellsnevertookhiseyesoffher.Hopetogoodnesshewon’tkeepmeheretillseven.

           Thetelephonerangrudelybyherear.

           —Hello.Yes,sir.No,sir.Yes,sir.I’llringthemupafterfive.Onlythosetwo,sir,forBelfastandLiverpool.Allright,sir.ThenIcangoaftersixifyou’renotback.Aquarterafter.Yes,sir.Twentysevenandsix.I’lltellhim.Yes:one,seven,six.

           Shescribbledthreefiguresonanenvelope.

           —MrBoylan!Hello!ThatgentlemanfromSportwasinlookingforyou.MrLenehan,yes.Hesaidhe’llbeintheOrmondatfour.No,sir.Yes,sir.I’llringthemupafterfive.

           ***

           Twopinkfacesturnedintheflareofthetinytorch.

           —Who’sthat?NedLambertasked.IsthatCrotty?

           —RingabellaandCrosshaven,avoicerepliedgropingforfoothold.

           —Hello,Jack,isthatyourself?NedLambertsaid,raisinginsalutehispliantlathamongtheflickeringarches.Comeon.Mindyourstepsthere.