—­Certainly, sir.

Paddy Leonard eyed his alemates.

—­Lord love a duck, he said.  Look at what I’m standing drinks to!  Cold water and gingerpop!  Two fellows that would suck whisky off a sore leg.  He has some bloody horse up his sleeve for the Gold cup.  A dead snip.

—­Zinfandel is it?  Nosey Flynn asked.

Tom Rochford spilt powder from a twisted paper into the water set before him.

—­That cursed dyspepsia, he said before drinking.

—­Breadsoda is very good, Davy Byrne said.

Tom Rochford nodded and drank.

—­Is it Zinfandel?

—­Say nothing!  Bantam Lyons winked.  I’m going to plunge five bob on my own.

—­Tell us if you’re worth your salt and be damned to you, Paddy Leonard said.  Who gave it to you?

Mr Bloom on his way out raised three fingers in greeting.

—­So long!  Nosey Flynn said.

The others turned.

—­That’s the man now that gave it to me, Bantam Lyons whispered.

—­Prrwht!  Paddy Leonard said with scorn.  Mr Byrne, sir, we’ll take two of your small Jamesons after that and a ...

—­Stone ginger, Davy Byrne added civilly.

—­Ay, Paddy Leonard said.  A suckingbottle for the baby.

Mr Bloom walked towards Dawson street, his tongue brushing his teeth smooth.  Something green it would have to be:  spinach, say.  Then with those Rontgen rays searchlight you could.

At Duke lane a ravenous terrier choked up a sick knuckly cud on the cobblestones and lapped it with new zest.  Surfeit.  Returned with thanks having fully digested the contents.  First sweet then savoury.  Mr Bloom coasted warily.  Ruminants.  His second course.  Their upper jaw they move.  Wonder if Tom Rochford will do anything with that invention of his?  Wasting time explaining it to Flynn’s mouth.  Lean people long mouths.  Ought to be a hall or a place where inventors could go in and invent free.  Course then you’d have all the cranks pestering.

He hummed, prolonging in solemn echo the closes of the bars: 

    Don Giovanni, A cenar teco
    M’INVITASTI.

Feel better.  Burgundy.  Good pick me up.  Who distilled first?  Some chap in the blues.  Dutch courage.  That Kilkenny people in the national library now I must.

Bare clean closestools waiting in the window of William Miller, plumber, turned back his thoughts.  They could:  and watch it all the way down, swallow a pin sometimes come out of the ribs years after, tour round the body changing biliary duct spleen squirting liver gastric juice coils of intestines like pipes.  But the poor buffer would have to stand all the time with his insides entrails on show.  Science.

—­A cenar teco.

What does that teco mean?  Tonight perhaps.

    Don Giovanni, thou hast me invited
    to come to supper tonight,
    the rum the rumdum.