Mrs Breen:  (Eagerly) Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.

(She fades from his side.  Followed by the whining dog he walks on towards
HELLSGATES.  In an archway A standing woman, bent forward, her feet apart,
pisses COWILY.  Outside A shuttered pub A bunch of loiterers listen to A
tale which their BROKENSNOUTED Gaffer rasps out with raucous humour.  An
armless pair of them flop wrestling, growling, in maimed sodden
PLAYFIGHT.)

The Gaffer:  (Crouches, his voice twisted in his snout) And when Cairns came down from the scaffolding in Beaver street what was he after doing it into only into the bucket of porter that was there waiting on the shavings for Derwan’s plasterers.

The loiterers:  (Guffaw with cleft palates) O jays!

(Their PAINTSPECKLED hats wag.  Spattered with size and lime of their
lodges they Frisk LIMBLESSLY about him.)

Bloom:  Coincidence too.  They think it funny.  Anything but that.  Broad daylight.  Trying to walk.  Lucky no woman.

The loiterers:  Jays, that’s a good one.  Glauber salts.  O jays, into the men’s porter.

(Bloom passes.  Cheap whores, singly, coupled, SHAWLED, dishevelled, call from Lanes, doors, corners.)

The whores: 

    Are you going far, queer fellow? 
    How’s your middle leg? 
    Got a match on you? 
    Eh, come here till I stiffen it for you.

(He PLODGES through their Sump towards the lighted street beyond.  From A bulge of window curtains A gramophone rears A battered brazen trunk.  In the shadow A SHEBEENKEEPER haggles with the navvy and the two redcoats.)

The navvy:  (Belching) Where’s the bloody house?

The SHEBEENKEEPER:  Purdon street.  Shilling a bottle of stout.  Respectable woman.

The navvy:  (Gripping the two redcoats, Staggers forward with them) Come on, you British army!

Private Carr:  (Behind his back) He aint half balmy.