—­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 waistcoatpocket.  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 so that the wheel itself much handier?  Well but that fellow would lose his job then?  Well but then another fellow would get a job making the new invention?

Antient concert rooms.  Nothing on there.  A man in a buff suit with a crape armlet.  Not much grief there.  Quarter mourning.  People in law perhaps.

They went past the bleak pulpit of saint Mark’s, under the railway bridge, past the Queen’s theatre:  in silence.  Hoardings:  Eugene Stratton, Mrs Bandmann Palmer.  Could I go to see Leah tonight, I wonder.  I said I. Or the lily of Killarney?  Elster Grimes Opera Company.  Big powerful change.  Wet bright bills for next week.  Fun on the Bristol.  Martin Cunningham could work a pass for the Gaiety.  Have to stand a drink or two.  As broad as it’s long.