He tasted a spoonful from the creamy cone of his cup.

—­This is real Irish cream I take it, he said with forbearance. 
I don’t want to be imposed on.

Elijah, skiff, light crumpled throwaway, sailed eastward by flanks of ships and trawlers, amid an archipelago of corks, beyond new Wapping street past Benson’s ferry, and by the threemasted schooner ROSEVEAN from Bridgwater with bricks.

* * * * *

Almidano Artifoni walked past Holles street, past Sewell’s yard.  Behind him Cashel Boyle O’Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, with stickumbrelladustcoat dangling, shunned the lamp before Mr Law Smith’s house and, crossing, walked along Merrion square.  Distantly behind him a blind stripling tapped his way by the wall of College park.

Cashel Boyle O’Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell walked as far as Mr Lewis Werner’s cheerful windows, then turned and strode back along Merrion square, his stickumbrelladustcoat dangling.

At the corner of Wilde’s house he halted, frowned at Elijah’s name announced on the Metropolitan hall, frowned at the distant pleasance of duke’s lawn.  His eyeglass flashed frowning in the sun.  With ratsteeth bared he muttered: 

—­COACTUS VOLUI.

He strode on for Clare street, grinding his fierce word.

As he strode past Mr Bloom’s dental windows the sway of his dustcoat brushed rudely from its angle a slender tapping cane and swept onwards, having buffeted a thewless body.  The blind stripling turned his sickly face after the striding form.

—­God’s curse on you, he said sourly, whoever you are!  You’re blinder nor
I am, you bitch’s bastard!

* * * * *

Opposite Ruggy O’Donohoe’s Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam, pawing the pound and a half of Mangan’s, late Fehrenbach’s, porksteaks he had been sent for, went along warm Wicklow street dawdling.  It was too blooming dull sitting in the parlour with Mrs Stoer and Mrs Quigley and Mrs MacDowell and the blind down and they all at their sniffles and sipping sups of the superior tawny sherry uncle Barney brought from Tunney’s.  And they eating crumbs of the cottage fruitcake, jawing the whole blooming time and sighing.

After Wicklow lane the window of Madame Doyle, courtdress milliner, stopped him.  He stood looking in at the two puckers stripped to their pelts and putting up their props.  From the sidemirrors two mourning Masters Dignam gaped silently.  Myler Keogh, Dublin’s pet lamb, will meet sergeantmajor Bennett, the Portobello bruiser, for a purse of fifty sovereigns.  Gob, that’d be a good pucking match to see.  Myler Keogh, that’s the chap sparring out to him with the green sash.  Two bar entrance, soldiers half price.  I could easy do a bunk on ma.  Master Dignam on his left turned as he turned.  That’s me in mourning.  When is it?  May the twentysecond.  Sure, the blooming thing is all over.  He turned to the right and on his right Master Dignam turned, his cap awry, his collar sticking up.  Buttoning it down, his chin lifted, he saw the image of Marie Kendall, charming soubrette, beside the two puckers.  One of them mots that do be in the packets of fags Stoer smokes that his old fellow welted hell out of him for one time he found out.