—­Brayden.

Mr Bloom turned and saw the liveried porter raise his lettered cap as a stately figure entered between the newsboards of the weekly Freeman and national press and the FREEMAN’S journal and national press.  Dullthudding Guinness’s barrels.  It passed statelily up the staircase, steered by an umbrella, a solemn beardframed face.  The broadcloth back ascended each step:  back.  All his brains are in the nape of his neck, Simon Dedalus says.  Welts of flesh behind on him.  Fat folds of neck, fat, neck, fat, neck.

—­Don’t you think his face is like Our Saviour?  Red Murray whispered.

The door of Ruttledge’s office whispered:  ee:  cree.  They always build one door opposite another for the wind to.  Way in.  Way out.

Our Saviour:  beardframed oval face:  talking in the dusk.  Mary,
Martha.  Steered by an umbrella sword to the footlights:  Mario the tenor.

—­Or like Mario, Mr Bloom said.

—­Yes, Red Murray agreed.  But Mario was said to be the picture of Our
Saviour.

Jesusmario with rougy cheeks, doublet and spindle legs.  Hand on his heart.  In martha.

    Co-OME thou lost one,
    Co-OME thou dear one!

    The crozier and the pen

—­His grace phoned down twice this morning, Red Murray said gravely.

They watched the knees, legs, boots vanish.  Neck.

A telegram boy stepped in nimbly, threw an envelope on the counter and stepped off posthaste with a word: 

—­Freeman!

Mr Bloom said slowly: 

—­Well, he is one of our saviours also.

A meek smile accompanied him as he lifted the counterflap, as he passed in through a sidedoor and along the warm dark stairs and passage, along the now reverberating boards.  But will he save the circulation?  Thumping.  Thumping.

He pushed in the glass swingdoor and entered, stepping over strewn packing paper.  Through a lane of clanking drums he made his way towards Nannetti’s reading closet.

Hynes here too:  account of the funeral probably.  Thumping.  Thump.

    With unfeigned regret it is we announce the dissolution
    of A most respected Dublin Burgess

This morning the remains of the late Mr Patrick Dignam.  Machines.  Smash a man to atoms if they got him caught.  Rule the world today.  His machineries are pegging away too.  Like these, got out of hand:  fermenting.  Working away, tearing away.  And that old grey rat tearing to get in.

    How A great daily organ is turned out

Mr Bloom halted behind the foreman’s spare body, admiring a glossy crown.