—­What’s the best news?  Mr Dedalus said.

—­Why then not much, Father Cowley said.  I’m barricaded up, Simon, with two men prowling around the house trying to effect an entrance.

—­Jolly, Mr Dedalus said.  Who is it?

—­O, Father Cowley said.  A certain gombeen man of our acquaintance.

—­With a broken back, is it?  Mr Dedalus asked.

—­The same, Simon, Father Cowley answered.  Reuben of that ilk.  I’m just waiting for Ben Dollard.  He’s going to say a word to long John to get him to take those two men off.  All I want is a little time.

He looked with vague hope up and down the quay, a big apple bulging in his neck.

—­I know, Mr Dedalus said, nodding.  Poor old bockedy Ben!  He’s always doing a good turn for someone.  Hold hard!

He put on his glasses and gazed towards the metal bridge an instant.

—­There he is, by God, he said, arse and pockets.

Ben Dollard’s loose blue cutaway and square hat above large slops crossed the quay in full gait from the metal bridge.  He came towards them at an amble, scratching actively behind his coattails.

As he came near Mr Dedalus greeted: 

—­Hold that fellow with the bad trousers.

—­Hold him now, Ben Dollard said.

Mr Dedalus eyed with cold wandering scorn various points of Ben Dollard’s figure.  Then, turning to Father Cowley with a nod, he muttered sneeringly: 

—­That’s a pretty garment, isn’t it, for a summer’s day?

—­Why, God eternally curse your soul, Ben Dollard growled furiously, I threw out more clothes in my time than you ever saw.

He stood beside them beaming, on them first and on his roomy clothes from points of which Mr Dedalus flicked fluff, saying: 

—­They were made for a man in his health, Ben, anyhow.

—­Bad luck to the jewman that made them, Ben Dollard said.  Thanks be to
God he’s not paid yet.

—­And how is that Basso PROFONDO, Benjamin?  Father Cowley asked.

Cashel Boyle O’Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, murmuring, glassyeyed, strode past the Kildare street club.

Ben Dollard frowned and, making suddenly a chanter’s mouth, gave forth a deep note.

—­Aw! he said.

—­That’s the style, Mr Dedalus said, nodding to its drone.

—­What about that?  Ben Dollard said.  Not too dusty?  What?

He turned to both.

—­That’ll do, Father Cowley said, nodding also.

The reverend Hugh C. Love walked from the old chapterhouse of saint Mary’s abbey past James and Charles Kennedy’s, rectifiers, attended by Geraldines tall and personable, towards the Tholsel beyond the ford of hurdles.

Ben Dollard with a heavy list towards the shopfronts led them forward, his joyful fingers in the air.

—­Come along with me to the subsheriff’s office, he said.  I want to show you the new beauty Rock has for a bailiff.  He’s a cross between Lobengula and Lynchehaun.  He’s well worth seeing, mind you.  Come along.  I saw John Henry Menton casually in the Bodega just now and it will cost me a fall if I don’t ...  Wait awhile ...  We’re on the right lay, Bob, believe you me.