daughter, Dancer Moses was her name, and the poodle in her lap bridled up and you asked me if I ever heard or read or knew or came across .

MRS BREEN (Eagerly.) Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.

(She fades from his side. Followed by the whining dog he walks on towards hellsgates. In an archway a standing woman, bent forward, her feet apart, pisses cowily. Outside a shuttered pub a bunch of loiterers listen to a tale which their broken snouted gaffer rasps out with raucous humour. An armless pair of them flop wrestling, growling, in maimed sodden playfight.)

THE GAFFER (Crouches, his voice twisted in his snout.) And when Cairns came down from the scaffolding in Beaver Street what was he after doing it into only into the bucket of porter that was there waiting on the shavings for Derwan's plasterers.

THE LOITERERS (Guffaw with cleft palates.) O jays!

(Their paintspeckled hats wag. Spattered with size and lime of their lodges they frisk limblessly about him.)

BLOOM Coincidence too. They think it funny. Anything but that. Broad daylight. Trying to walk. Lucky no woman.

THE LOITERERS Jays, that's a good one. Glauber salts. O jays, into the men's porter.

(Bloom passes. Cheap whores, singly, coupled, shawled, dishevelled, call from lanes, doors, corners.)

THE WHORES Are you going far, queer fellow? How's your middle leg? Got a match on you? Eh, come here till I stiffen it for you.

(He plodges through their sump towards the lighted street beyond. From a bulge of window curtains a gramophone rears a battered brazen trunk. In the shadow a shebeenkeeper haggles with the navvy and the two redcoats.)

THE NAVVY (Belching.) Where's the bloody house?

THE SHEBEENKEEPER Purdon street. Shilling a bottle of stout. Respectable woman.

THE NAVVY (Gripping the two redcoats, staggers forward with them.) Come on, you British army!

PRIVATE CARR (Behind his back.) He aint half balmy.

PRIVATE COMPTON (LAughs.) What ho!

PRIVATE CARR (To the navvy.) Portobello barracks canteen. You ask for Carr. Just Carr.

THE NAVVY (Shouts.)

We are the boys. Of Wexford.

PRIVATE COMPTON Say! What price the sergeantmajor?

PRIVATE CARR Bennett? He's my pal. I love old Bennett.

THENAVVY (Shouts.)

The galling chain.
And free our native land.