—­Everybody gets their own ration of luck, they say.  Now you mention it his face was familiar to me.  But, leaving that for the moment, how much did you part with, he queried, if I am not too inquisitive?

—­Half a crown, Stephen responded.  I daresay he needs it to sleep somewhere.

—­Needs!  Mr Bloom ejaculated, professing not the least surprise at the intelligence, I can quite credit the assertion and I guarantee he invariably does.  Everyone according to his needs or everyone according to his deeds.  But, talking about things in general, where, added he with a smile, will you sleep yourself?  Walking to Sandycove is out of the question.  And even supposing you did you won’t get in after what occurred at Westland Row station.  Simply fag out there for nothing.  I don’t mean to presume to dictate to you in the slightest degree but why did you leave your father’s house?

—­To seek misfortune, was Stephen’s answer.

—­I met your respected father on a recent occasion, Mr Bloom diplomatically returned, today in fact, or to be strictly accurate, on yesterday.  Where does he live at present?  I gathered in the course of conversation that he had moved.

—­I believe he is in Dublin somewhere, Stephen answered unconcernedly.  Why?

—­A gifted man, Mr Bloom said of Mr Dedalus senior, in more respects than one and a born raconteur if ever there was one.  He takes great pride, quite legitimate, out of you.  You could go back perhaps, he hasarded, still thinking of the very unpleasant scene at Westland Row terminus when it was perfectly evident that the other two, Mulligan, that is, and that English tourist friend of his, who eventually euchred their third companion, were patently trying as if the whole bally station belonged to them to give Stephen the slip in the confusion, which they did.

There was no response forthcoming to the suggestion however, such as it was, Stephen’s mind’s eye being too busily engaged in repicturing his family hearth the last time he saw it with his sister Dilly sitting by the ingle, her hair hanging down, waiting for some weak Trinidad shell cocoa that was in the sootcoated kettle to be done so that she and he could drink it with the oatmealwater for milk after the Friday herrings they had eaten at two a penny with an egg apiece for Maggy, Boody and Katey, the cat meanwhile under the mangle devouring a mess of eggshells and charred fish heads and bones on a square of brown paper, in accordance with the third precept of the church to fast and abstain on the days commanded, it being quarter tense or if not, ember days or something like that.

—­No, Mr Bloom repeated again, I wouldn’t personally repose much trust in that boon companion of yours who contributes the humorous element, Dr Mulligan, as a guide, philosopher and friend if I were in your shoes.  He knows which side his bread is buttered on though in all probability he never realised what it is to be without regular meals.  Of course you didn’t notice as much as I did.  But it wouldn’t occasion me the least surprise to learn that a pinch of tobacco or some narcotic was put in your drink for some ulterior object.