Bloom:  Stitch in my side.  Why did I run?

(He takes breath with care and goes forward slowly towards the LAMPSET
siding.  The glow leaps again.)

Bloom:  What is that?  A flasher?  Searchlight.

(He stands at CORMACK’S corner, watching)

Bloom:  Aurora Borealis or a steel foundry?  Ah, the brigade, of course.  South side anyhow.  Big blaze.  Might be his house.  Beggar’s bush.  We’re safe. (He hums cheerfully) London’s burning, London’s burning!  On fire, on fire! (He catches sight of the navvy lurching through the crowd at the farther side of Talbot street) I’ll miss him.  Run.  Quick.  Better cross here.

(He darts to cross the road.  Urchins shout.)

The urchins:  Mind out, mister! (Two cyclists, with lighted paper lanterns
ASWING, swim by him, grazing him, their bells rattling)

The bells:  Haltyaltyaltyall.

Bloom:  (Halts erect, stung by A spasm) Ow!

(He looks round, darts forward suddenly.  Through rising fog A dragon
sandstrewer, travelling at caution, SLEWS heavily down upon him, its huge
red Headlight winking, its trolley hissing on the wire.  The motorman
Bangs his FOOTGONG.)

The gong:  Bang Bang Bla Bak Blud Bugg Bloo.

(The brake cracks violently.  Bloom, raising A policeman’s WHITEGLOVED
hand, blunders STIFFLEGGED out of the track.  The motorman, thrown
forward, pugnosed, on the GUIDEWHEEL, yells as he slides past over chains
and keys.)

The motorman:  Hey, shitbreeches, are you doing the hat trick?

Bloom:  (Bloom TRICKLEAPS to the curbstone and halts again.  He brushes A MUDFLAKE from his cheek with A parcelled hand.) No thoroughfare.  Close shave that but cured the stitch.  Must take up Sandow’s exercises again.  On the hands down.  Insure against street accident too.  The Providential.  (He