—­Aha! cried he of the pleasant countenance.  A poor house and a bare larder, quotha!  ’Tis a merry rogue.

So in comes Martin asking where was Bloom.

—­Where is he? says Lenehan.  Defrauding widows and orphans.

—­Isn’t that a fact, says John Wyse, what I was telling the citizen about
Bloom and the Sinn Fein?

—­That’s so, says Martin.  Or so they allege.

—­Who made those allegations? says Alf.

—­I, says Joe.  I’m the alligator.

—­And after all, says John Wyse, why can’t a jew love his country like the next fellow?

—­Why not? says J. J., when he’s quite sure which country it is.

—­Is he a jew or a gentile or a holy Roman or a swaddler or what the hell is he? says Ned.  Or who is he?  No offence, Crofton.

—­Who is Junius? says J. J.

—­We don’t want him, says Crofter the Orangeman or presbyterian.

—­He’s a perverted jew, says Martin, from a place in Hungary and it was he drew up all the plans according to the Hungarian system.  We know that in the castle.

—­Isn’t he a cousin of Bloom the dentist? says Jack Power.

—­Not at all, says Martin.  Only namesakes.  His name was Virag, the father’s name that poisoned himself.  He changed it by deedpoll, the father did.

—­That’s the new Messiah for Ireland! says the citizen.  Island of saints and sages!

—­Well, they’re still waiting for their redeemer, says Martin.  For that matter so are we.

—­Yes, says J. J., and every male that’s born they think it may be their Messiah.  And every jew is in a tall state of excitement, I believe, till he knows if he’s a father or a mother.

—­Expecting every moment will be his next, says Lenehan.

—­O, by God, says Ned, you should have seen Bloom before that son of his that died was born.  I met him one day in the south city markets buying a tin of Neave’s food six weeks before the wife was delivered.

—­En Ventre Sa mere, says J. J.

—­Do you call that a man? says the citizen.

—­I wonder did he ever put it out of sight, says Joe.

—­Well, there were two children born anyhow, says Jack Power.

—­And who does he suspect? says the citizen.

Gob, there’s many a true word spoken in jest.  One of those mixed middlings he is.  Lying up in the hotel Pisser was telling me once a month with headache like a totty with her courses.  Do you know what I’m telling you?  It’d be an act of God to take a hold of a fellow the like of that and throw him in the bloody sea.  Justifiable homicide, so it would.  Then sloping off with his five quid without putting up a pint of stuff like a man.  Give us your blessing.  Not as much as would blind your eye.

—­Charity to the neighbour, says Martin.  But where is he?  We can’t wait.

—­A wolf in sheep’s clothing, says the citizen.  That’s what he is.  Virag from Hungary!  Ahasuerus I call him.  Cursed by God.