—­Bingbang, bangbang.

Mr Bloom, seeing the coast clear, made for the inner door.

—­Just a moment, Mr Crawford, he said.  I just want to phone about an ad.

He went in.

—­What about that leader this evening? professor MacHugh asked, coming to the editor and laying a firm hand on his shoulder.

—­That’ll be all right, Myles Crawford said more calmly.  Never you fret. 
Hello, Jack.  That’s all right.

—­Good day, Myles, J. J. O’Molloy said, letting the pages he held slip limply back on the file.  Is that Canada swindle case on today?

The telephone whirred inside.

—­Twentyeight ...  No, twenty ...  Double four ...  Yes.

    Spot the winner

Lenehan came out of the inner office with SPORT’S tissues.

—­Who wants a dead cert for the Gold cup? he asked.  Sceptre with O.
Madden up.

He tossed the tissues on to the table.

Screams of newsboys barefoot in the hall rushed near and the door was flung open.

—­Hush, Lenehan said.  I hear feetstoops.

Professor MacHugh strode across the room and seized the cringing urchin by the collar as the others scampered out of the hall and down the steps.  The tissues rustled up in the draught, floated softly in the air blue scrawls and under the table came to earth.

—­It wasn’t me, sir.  It was the big fellow shoved me, sir.

—­Throw him out and shut the door, the editor said.  There’s a hurricane blowing.

Lenehan began to paw the tissues up from the floor, grunting as he stooped twice.

—­Waiting for the racing special, sir, the newsboy said.  It was Pat Farrell shoved me, sir.

He pointed to two faces peering in round the doorframe.

—­Him, sir.

—­Out of this with you, professor MacHugh said gruffly.

He hustled the boy out and banged the door to.

J. J. O’Molloy turned the files crackingly over, murmuring, seeking: 

—­Continued on page six, column four.

—­Yes, evening telegraph here, Mr Bloom phoned from the inner office.  Is the boss ...?  Yes, telegraph ...  To where?  Aha!  Which auction rooms? ...  Aha!  I see ...  Right.  I’ll catch him.

    A collision ensues

The bell whirred again as he rang off.  He came in quickly and bumped against Lenehan who was struggling up with the second tissue.

—­Pardon, monsieur, Lenehan said, clutching him for an instant and making a grimace.

—­My fault, Mr Bloom said, suffering his grip.  Are you hurt?  I’m in a hurry.

—­Knee, Lenehan said.

He made a comic face and whined, rubbing his knee: 

—­The accumulation of the Anno DOMINI.

—­Sorry, Mr Bloom said.

He went to the door and, holding it ajar, paused.  J. J. O’Molloy slapped the heavy pages over.  The noise of two shrill voices, a mouthorgan, echoed in the bare hallway from the newsboys squatted on the doorsteps: