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Ulysses
IN THE HEART OF THE HIBERNIAN METROPOLIS
Before Nelson's pillar trams slowed, shunted, changed trolley, started
for Blackrock, Kingstown and Dalkey, Clonskea, Rathgar and Terenure,
Palmerston Park and upper Rathmines, Sandymount Green, Rathmines,
Ringsend and Sandymount Tower, Harold's Cross. The hoarse Dublin
United Tramway Company's timekeeper bawled them off:
--Rathgar and Terenure!
--Come on, Sandymount Green!
Right and left parallel clanging ringing a doubledecker and a
singledeck moved from their railheads, swerved to the down line,
glided parallel.
--Start, Palmerston Park!
THE WEARER OF THE CROWN
Under the porch of the general post office shoeblacks called and
polished. Parked in North Prince's street His Majesty's vermilion
mailcars, bearing on their sides the royal initials, E. R., received
loudly flung sacks of letters, postcards, lettercards, parcels,
insured and paid, for local, provincial, British and overseas
delivery.
GENTLEMEN OF THE PRESS
Grossbooted draymen rolled barrels dullthudding out of Prince's stores
and bumped them up on the brewery float. On the brewery float bumped
dullthudding barrels rolled by grossbooted draymen out of Prince's
stores.
--There it is, Red Murray said. Alexander Keyes.
--Just cut it out, will you? Mr Bloom said, and I'll take it round to
the TELEGRAPH office.
The door of Ruttledge's office creaked again. Davy Stephens, minute in
a large capecoat, a small felt hat crowning his ringlets, passed out
with a roll of papers under his cape, a king's courier.
Red Murray's long shears sliced out the advertisement from the
newspaper in four clean strokes. Scissors and paste.
--I'll go through the printingworks, Mr Bloom said, taking the cut
square.
--Of course, if he wants a par, Red Murray said earnestly, a pen
behind his ear, we can do him one.
--Right, Mr Bloom said with a nod. I'll rub that in.
We.
WILLIAM BRAYDEN, ESQUIRE, OF OAKLANDS, SANDYMOUNT
Red Murray touched Mr Bloom's arm with the shears and whispered:
--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.
Strange he never saw his real country. Ireland my country. Member for
College green. He boomed that workaday worker tack for all it was
worth. It's the ads and side features sell a weekly, not the stale
news in the official gazette. Queen Anne is dead. Published by
authority in the year one thousand and. Demesne situate in the
townland of Rosenallis, barony of Tinnahinch. To all whom it may
concern schedule pursuant to statute showing return of number of mules
and jennets exported from Ballina. Nature notes. Cartoons. Phil
Blake's weekly Pat and Bull story. Uncle Toby's page for tiny tots.
Country bumpkin's queries. Dear Mr Editor, what is a good cure for
flatulence? I'd like that part. Learn a lot teaching others. The
personal note. M. A. P. Mainly all pictures. Shapely bathers on golden
strand. World's biggest balloon. Double marriage of sisters
celebrated. Two bridegrooms laughing heartily at each other. Cuprani
too, printer. More Irish than the Irish.
The machines clanked in threefour time. Thump, thump, thump. Now if he
got paralysed there and no-one knew how to stop them they'd clank on
and on the same, print it over and over and up and back. Monkeydoodle
the whole thing. Want a cool head.
--Well, get it into the evening edition, councillor, Hynes said.
Soon be calling him my lord mayor. Long John is backing him, they say.
The foreman, without answering, scribbled press on a corner of the
sheet and made a sign to a typesetter. He handed the sheet silently
over the dirty glass screen.
--Right: thanks, Hynes said moving off.
Mr Bloom stood in his way.
--If you want to draw the cashier is just going to lunch, he said,
pointing backward with his thumb.
--Did you? Hynes asked.
--Mm, Mr Bloom said. Look sharp and you'll catch him.
--Thanks, old man, Hynes said. I'll tap him too.
He hurried on eagerly towards the FREEMAN'S JOURNAL.
Three bob I lent him in Meagher's. Three weeks. Third hint.
WE SEE THE CANVASSER AT WORK
Mr Bloom laid his cutting on Mr Nannetti's desk.
--Excuse me, councillor, he said. This ad, you see. Keyes, you
remember?
Mr Nannetti considered the cutting awhile and nodded.
--He wants it in for July, Mr Bloom said.
The foreman moved his pencil towards it.
--But wait, Mr Bloom said. He wants it changed. Keyes, you see. He
wants two keys at the top.
Hell of a racket they make. He doesn't hear it. Nannan. Iron nerves.
Maybe he understands what I.
The foreman turned round to hear patiently and, lifting an elbow,
began to scratch slowly in the armpit of his alpaca jacket.
--Like that, Mr Bloom said, crossing his forefingers at the top.
Let him take that in first.
Mr Bloom, glancing sideways up from the cross he had made, saw the
foreman's sallow face, think he has a touch of jaundice, and beyond
the obedient reels feeding in huge webs of paper. Clank it. Clank it.
Miles of it unreeled. What becomes of it after? O, wrap up meat,
parcels: various uses, thousand and one things.
Slipping his words deftly into the pauses of the clanking he drew
swiftly on the scarred woodwork.
HOUSE OF KEY(E)S
--Like that, see. Two crossed keys here. A circle. Then here the name.
Alexander Keyes, tea, wine and spirit merchant. So on.
Better not teach him his own business.
--You know yourself, councillor, just what he wants. Then round the
top in leaded: the house of keys. You see? Do you think that's a good
idea?
The foreman moved his scratching hand to his lower ribs and scratched
there quietly.
--The idea, Mr Bloom said, is the house of keys. You know, councillor,
the Manx parliament. Innuendo of home rule. Tourists, you know, from
the isle of Man. Catches the eye, you see. Can you do that?
I could ask him perhaps about how to pronounce that VOGLIO. But then
if he didn't know only make it awkward for him. Better not.
--We can do that, the foreman said. Have you the design?
--I can get it, Mr Bloom said. It was in a Kilkenny paper. He has a
house there too. I'll just run out and ask him. Well, you can do that
and just a little par calling attention. You know the usual. Highclass
licensed premises. Longfelt want. So on.
The foreman thought for an instant.
--We can do that, he said. Let him give us a three months' renewal.
A typesetter brought him a limp galleypage. He began to check it
silently. Mr Bloom stood by, hearing the loud throbs of cranks,
watching the silent typesetters at their cases.
ORTHOGRAPHICAL
Want to be sure of his spelling. Proof fever. Martin Cunningham forgot
to give us his spellingbee conundrum this morning. It is amusing to
view the unpar one ar alleled embarra two ars is it? double ess ment
of a harassed pedlar while gauging au the symmetry with a y of a
peeled pear under a cemetery wall. Silly, isn't it? Cemetery put in of
course on account of the symmetry.
I should have said when he clapped on his topper. Thank you. I ought
to have said something about an old hat or something. No. I could have
said. Looks as good as new now. See his phiz then.
Sllt. The nethermost deck of the first machine jogged forward its
flyboard with sllt the first batch of quirefolded papers. Sllt. Almost
human the way it sllt to call attention. Doing its level best to
speak. That door too sllt creaking, asking to be shut. Everything
speaks in its own way. Sllt.
NOTED CHURCHMAN AN OCCASIONAL CONTRIBUTOR
The foreman handed back the galleypage suddenly, saying:
--Wait. Where's the archbishop's letter? It's to be repeated in the
TELEGRAPH. Where's what's his name?
He looked about him round his loud unanswering machines.
--Monks, sir? a voice asked from the castingbox.
--Ay. Where's Monks?
--Monks!
Mr Bloom took up his cutting. Time to get out.
--Then I'll get the design, Mr Nannetti, he said, and you'll give it a
good place I know.
--Monks!
--Yes, sir.
Three months' renewal. Want to get some wind off my chest first. Try
it anyhow. Rub in August: good idea: horseshow month. Ballsbridge.
Tourists over for the show.
A DAYFATHER
He walked on through the caseroom passing an old man, bowed,
spectacled, aproned. Old Monks, the dayfather. Queer lot of stuff he
must have put through his hands in his time: obituary notices, pubs'
ads, speeches, divorce suits, found drowned. Nearing the end of his
tether now. Sober serious man with a bit in the savingsbank I'd say.
Wife a good cook and washer. Daughter working the machine in the
parlour. Plain Jane, no damn nonsense.
AND IT WAS THE FEAST OF THE PASSOVER
He stayed in his walk to watch a typesetter neatly distributing type.
Reads it backwards first. Quickly he does it. Must require some
practice that. mangiD kcirtaP. Poor papa with his hagadah book,
reading backwards with his finger to me. Pessach. Next year in
Jerusalem. Dear, O dear! All that long business about that brought us
out of the land of Egypt and into the house of bondage ALLELUIA. SHEMA
ISRAEL ADONAI ELOHENU. No, that's the other. Then the twelve brothers,
Jacob's sons. And then the lamb and the cat and the dog and the stick
and the water and the butcher. And then the angel of death kills the
butcher and he kills the ox and the dog kills the cat. Sounds a bit
silly till you come to look into it well. Justice it means but it's
everybody eating everyone else. That's what life is after all. How
quickly he does that job. Practice makes perfect. Seems to see with
his fingers.
Mr Bloom passed on out of the clanking noises through the gallery on
to the landing. Now am I going to tram it out all the way and then
catch him out perhaps. Better phone him up first. Number? Yes. Same as
Citron's house. Twentyeight. Twentyeight double four.
ONLY ONCE MORE THAT SOAP
He went down the house staircase. Who the deuce scrawled all over
those walls with matches? Looks as if they did it for a bet. Heavy
greasy smell there always is in those works. Lukewarm glue in Thom's
next door when I was there.
He took out his handkerchief to dab his nose. Citronlemon? Ah, the
soap I put there. Lose it out of that pocket. Putting back his
handkerchief he took out the soap and stowed it away, buttoned, into
the hip pocket of his trousers.
What perfume does your wife use? I could go home still: tram:
something I forgot. Just to see: before: dressing. No. Here. No.
A sudden screech of laughter came from the EVENING TELEGRAPH office.
Know who that is. What's up? Pop in a minute to phone. Ned Lambert it
is.
He entered softly.
ERIN, GREEN GEM OF THE SILVER SEA
--The ghost walks, professor MacHugh murmured softly, biscuitfully to
the dusty windowpane.
Mr Dedalus, staring from the empty fireplace at Ned Lambert's quizzing
face, asked of it sourly:
--Agonising Christ, wouldn't it give you a heartburn on your arse?
Ned Lambert, seated on the table, read on:
--OR AGAIN, NOTE THE MEANDERINGS OF SOME PURLING RILL AS IT BABBLES ON
ITS WAY, THO' QUARRELLING WITH THE STONY OBSTACLES, TO THE TUMBLING
WATERS OF NEPTUNE'S BLUE DOMAIN, 'MID MOSSY BANKS, FANNED BY GENTLEST
ZEPHYRS, PLAYED ON BY THE GLORIOUS SUNLIGHT OR 'NEATH THE SHADOWS CAST
O'ER ITS PENSIVE BOSOM BY THE OVERARCHING LEAFAGE OF THE GIANTS OF THE
FOREST. What about that, Simon? he asked over the fringe of his
newspaper. How's that for high?
--Changing his drink, Mr Dedalus said.
Ned Lambert, laughing, struck the newspaper on his knees, repeating:
--THE PENSIVE BOSOM AND THE OVERARSING LEAFAGE. O boys! O boys!
--And Xenophon looked upon Marathon, Mr Dedalus said, looking again on
the fireplace and to the window, and Marathon looked on the sea.
--That will do, professor MacHugh cried from the window. I don't want
to hear any more of the stuff.
He ate off the crescent of water biscuit he had been nibbling and,
hungered, made ready to nibble the biscuit in his other hand.
High falutin stuff. Bladderbags. Ned Lambert is taking a day off I
see. Rather upsets a man's day, a funeral does. He has influence they
say. Old Chatterton, the vicechancellor, is his granduncle or his
greatgranduncle. Close on ninety they say. Subleader for his death
written this long time perhaps. Living to spite them. Might go first
himself. Johnny, make room for your uncle. The right honourable Hedges
Eyre Chatterton. Daresay he writes him an odd shaky cheque or two on
gale days. Windfall when he kicks out. Alleluia.
--Just another spasm, Ned Lambert said.
--What is it? Mr Bloom asked.
--A recently discovered fragment of Cicero, professor MacHugh answered
with pomp of tone. OUR LOVELY LAND.
SHORT BUT TO THE POINT
--Whose land? Mr Bloom said simply.
--Most pertinent question, the professor said between his chews. With
an accent on the whose.
--Dan Dawson's land Mr Dedalus said.
--Is it his speech last night? Mr Bloom asked.
Ned Lambert nodded.
--But listen to this, he said.
The doorknob hit Mr Bloom in the small of the back as the door was
pushed in.
--Excuse me, J. J. O'Molloy said, entering.
Mr Bloom moved nimbly aside.
--I beg yours, he said.
--Good day, Jack.
--Come in. Come in.
--Good day.
--How are you, Dedalus?
--Well. And yourself?
J. J. O'Molloy shook his head.
SAD
Cleverest fellow at the junior bar he used to be. Decline, poor chap.
That hectic flush spells finis for a man. Touch and go with him.
What's in the wind, I wonder. Money worry.
--OR AGAIN IF WE BUT CLIMB THE SERRIED MOUNTAIN PEAKS.
--You're looking extra.
--Is the editor to be seen? J. J. O'Molloy asked, looking towards the
inner door.
--Very much so, professor MacHugh said. To be seen and heard. He's in
his sanctum with Lenehan.
J. J. O'Molloy strolled to the sloping desk and began to turn back the
pink pages of the file.
Practice dwindling. A mighthavebeen. Losing heart. Gambling. Debts of
honour. Reaping the whirlwind. Used to get good retainers from D. and
T. Fitzgerald. Their wigs to show the grey matter. Brains on their
sleeve like the statue in Glasnevin. Believe he does some literary
work for the EXPRESS with Gabriel Conroy. Wellread fellow. Myles
Crawford began on the INDEPENDENT. Funny the way those newspaper men
veer about when they get wind of a new opening. Weathercocks. Hot and
cold in the same breath. Wouldn't know which to believe. One story
good till you hear the next. Go for one another baldheaded in the
papers and then all blows over. Hail fellow well met the next moment.
--Ah, listen to this for God' sake, Ned Lambert pleaded. OR AGAIN IF
WE BUT CLIMB THE SERRIED MOUNTAIN PEAKS ...
--Bombast! the professor broke in testily. Enough of the inflated
windbag!
--PEAKS, Ned Lambert went on, TOWERING HIGH ON HIGH, TO BATHE OUR
SOULS, AS IT WERE ...
--Bathe his lips, Mr Dedalus said. Blessed and eternal God! Yes? Is he
taking anything for it?
--AS 'TWERE, IN THE PEERLESS PANORAMA OF IRELAND'S PORTFOLIO,
UNMATCHED, DESPITE THEIR WELLPRAISED PROTOTYPES IN OTHER VAUNTED PRIZE
REGIONS, FOR VERY BEAUTY, OF BOSKY GROVE AND UNDULATING PLAIN AND
LUSCIOUS PASTURELAND OF VERNAL GREEN, STEEPED IN THE TRANSCENDENT
TRANSLUCENT GLOW OF OUR MILD MYSTERIOUS IRISH TWILIGHT ...
HIS NATIVE DORIC
--The moon, professor MacHugh said. He forgot Hamlet.
--THAT MANTLES THE VISTA FAR AND WIDE AND WAIT TILL THE GLOWING ORB OF
THE MOON SHINE FORTH TO IRRADIATE HER SILVER EFFULGENCE ...
--O! Mr Dedalus cried, giving vent to a hopeless groan. Shite and
onions! That'll do, Ned. Life is too short.
He took off his silk hat and, blowing out impatiently his bushy
moustache, welshcombed his hair with raking fingers.
Ned Lambert tossed the newspaper aside, chuckling with delight. An
instant after a hoarse bark of laughter burst over professor MacHugh's
unshaven blackspectacled face.
--Doughy Daw! he cried.
WHAT WETHERUP SAID
All very fine to jeer at it now in cold print but it goes down like
hot cake that stuff. He was in the bakery line too, wasn't he? Why
they call him Doughy Daw. Feathered his nest well anyhow. Daughter
engaged to that chap in the inland revenue office with the motor.
Hooked that nicely. Entertainments. Open house. Big blowout. Wetherup
always said that. Get a grip of them by the stomach.
The inner door was opened violently and a scarlet beaked face, crested
by a comb of feathery hair, thrust itself in. The bold blue eyes
stared about them and the harsh voice asked:
--What is it?
--And here comes the sham squire himself! professor MacHugh said
grandly.
--Getonouthat, you bloody old pedagogue! the editor said in
recognition.
--Come, Ned, Mr Dedalus said, putting on his hat. I must get a drink
after that.
--Drink! the editor cried. No drinks served before mass.
--Quite right too, Mr Dedalus said, going out. Come on, Ned.
Ned Lambert sidled down from the table. The editor's blue eyes roved
towards Mr Bloom's face, shadowed by a smile.
--Will you join us, Myles? Ned Lambert asked.
MEMORABLE BATTLES RECALLED
--North Cork militia! the editor cried, striding to the mantelpiece.
We won every time! North Cork and Spanish officers!
--Where was that, Myles? Ned Lambert asked with a reflective glance at
his toecaps.
--In Ohio! the editor shouted.
--So it was, begad, Ned Lambert agreed.
Passing out he whispered to J. J. O'Molloy:
--Incipient jigs. Sad case.
--Ohio! the editor crowed in high treble from his uplifted scarlet
face. My Ohio!
--A perfect cretic! the professor said. Long, short and long.
O, HARP EOLIAN!
He took a reel of dental floss from his waistcoat pocket and, breaking
off a piece, twanged it smartly between two and two of his resonant
unwashed teeth.
--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:
--WE ARE THE BOYS OF WEXFORD WHO FOUGHT WITH HEART AND HAND.
EXIT BLOOM
--I'm just running round to Bachelor's walk, Mr Bloom said, about this
ad of Keyes's. Want to fix it up. They tell me he's round there in
Dillon's.
He looked indecisively for a moment at their faces. The editor who,
leaning against the mantelshelf, had propped his head on his hand,
suddenly stretched forth an arm amply.
--Begone! he said. The world is before you.
--Back in no time, Mr Bloom said, hurrying out.
J. J. O'Molloy took the tissues from Lenehan's hand and read them,
blowing them apart gently, without comment.
--He'll get that advertisement, the professor said, staring through
his blackrimmed spectacles over the crossblind. Look at the young
scamps after him.
--Show. Where? Lenehan cried, running to the window.
A STREET CORTEGE
Both smiled over the crossblind at the file of capering newsboys in Mr
Bloom's wake, the last zigzagging white on the breeze a mocking kite,
a tail of white bowknots.
--Look at the young guttersnipe behind him hue and cry, Lenehan said,
and you'll kick. O, my rib risible! Taking off his flat spaugs and the
walk. Small nines. Steal upon larks.
He began to mazurka in swift caricature across the floor on sliding
feet past the fireplace to J. J. O'Molloy who placed the tissues in
his receiving hands.
--What's that? Myles Crawford said with a start. Where are the other
two gone?
--Who? the professor said, turning. They're gone round to the Oval for
a drink. Paddy Hooper is there with Jack Hall. Came over last night.
--Come on then, Myles Crawford said. Where's my hat?
He walked jerkily into the office behind, parting the vent of his
jacket, jingling his keys in his back pocket. They jingled then in the
air and against the wood as he locked his desk drawer.
--He's pretty well on, professor MacHugh said in a low voice.
--Seems to be, J. J. O'Molloy said, taking out a cigarettecase in
murmuring meditation, but it is not always as it seems. Who has the
most matches?
THE CALUMET OF PEACE
He offered a cigarette to the professor and took one himself. Lenehan
promptly struck a match for them and lit their cigarettes in turn. J.
J. O'Molloy opened his case again and offered it.
--THANKY VOUS, Lenehan said, helping himself.
The editor came from the inner office, a straw hat awry on his brow.
He declaimed in song, pointing sternly at professor MacHugh:
--'TWAS RANK AND FAME THAT TEMPTED THEE, 'TWAS EMPIRE CHARMED THY
HEART.