Graft, my dear sir.  Well, of course, where there’s money going there’s always someone to pick it up.

Saw him looking at my frockcoat.  Dress does it.  Nothing like a dressy appearance.  Bowls them over.

—­Hello, Simon, Father Cowley said.  How are things?

—­Hello, Bob, old man, Mr Dedalus answered, stopping.

Mr Kernan halted and preened himself before the sloping mirror of Peter Kennedy, hairdresser.  Stylish coat, beyond a doubt.  Scott of Dawson street.  Well worth the half sovereign I gave Neary for it.  Never built under three guineas.  Fits me down to the ground.  Some Kildare street club toff had it probably.  John Mulligan, the manager of the Hibernian bank, gave me a very sharp eye yesterday on Carlisle bridge as if he remembered me.

Aham!  Must dress the character for those fellows.  Knight of the road.  Gentleman.  And now, Mr Crimmins, may we have the honour of your custom again, sir.  The cup that cheers but not inebriates, as the old saying has it.

North wall and sir John Rogerson’s quay, with hulls and anchorchains, sailing westward, sailed by a skiff, a crumpled throwaway, rocked on the ferrywash, Elijah is coming.

Mr Kernan glanced in farewell at his image.  High colour, of course.  Grizzled moustache.  Returned Indian officer.  Bravely he bore his stumpy body forward on spatted feet, squaring his shoulders.  Is that Ned Lambert’s brother over the way, Sam?  What?  Yes.  He’s as like it as damn it.  No.  The windscreen of that motorcar in the sun there.  Just a flash like that.  Damn like him.

Aham!  Hot spirit of juniper juice warmed his vitals and his breath.  Good drop of gin, that was.  His frocktails winked in bright sunshine to his fat strut.

Down there Emmet was hanged, drawn and quartered.  Greasy black rope.  Dogs licking the blood off the street when the lord lieutenant’s wife drove by in her noddy.

Bad times those were.  Well, well.  Over and done with.  Great topers too.  Fourbottle men.

Let me see.  Is he buried in saint Michan’s?  Or no, there was a midnight burial in Glasnevin.  Corpse brought in through a secret door in the wall.  Dignam is there now.  Went out in a puff.  Well, well.  Better turn down here.  Make a detour.

Mr Kernan turned and walked down the slope of Watling street by the corner of Guinness’s visitors’ waitingroom.  Outside the Dublin Distillers Company’s stores an outside car without fare or jarvey stood, the reins knotted to the wheel.  Damn dangerous thing.  Some Tipperary bosthoon endangering the lives of the citizens.  Runaway horse.

Denis Breen with his tomes, weary of having waited an hour in John Henry Menton’s office, led his wife over O’Connell bridge, bound for the office of Messrs Collis and Ward.

Mr Kernan approached Island street.

Times of the troubles.  Must ask Ned Lambert to lend me those reminiscences of sir Jonah Barrington.  When you look back on it all now in a kind of retrospective arrangement.  Gaming at Daly’s.  No cardsharping then.  One of those fellows got his hand nailed to the table by a dagger.  Somewhere here lord Edward Fitzgerald escaped from major Sirr.  Stables behind Moira house.