He took out of his mouth the pulpy quid and, lodging it between his teeth, bit ferociously: 

—­Khaan!  Like that.  And I seen maneaters in Peru that eats corpses and the livers of horses.  Look here.  Here they are.  A friend of mine sent me.

He fumbled out a picture postcard from his inside pocket which seemed to be in its way a species of repository and pushed it along the table.  The printed matter on it stated:  CHOZA de INDIOS.  Beni, Bolivia.

All focussed their attention at the scene exhibited, a group of savage women in striped loincloths, squatted, blinking, suckling, frowning, sleeping amid a swarm of infants (there must have been quite a score of them) outside some primitive shanties of osier.

—­Chews coca all day, the communicative tarpaulin added.  Stomachs like breadgraters.  Cuts off their diddies when they can’t bear no more children.

See them sitting there stark ballocknaked eating a dead horse’s liver raw.

His postcard proved a centre of attraction for Messrs the greenhorns for several minutes if not more.

—­Know how to keep them off? he inquired generally.

Nobody volunteering a statement he winked, saying: 

—­Glass.  That boggles ’em.  Glass.

Mr Bloom, without evincing surprise, unostentatiously turned over the card to peruse the partially obliterated address and postmark.  It ran as follows:  TARJETA postal, senor A Boudin, GALERIA BECCHE, Santiago, chile.  There was no message evidently, as he took particular notice.  Though not an implicit believer in the lurid story narrated (or the eggsniping transaction for that matter despite William Tell and the Lazarillo-Don Cesar de Bazan incident depicted in Maritana on which occasion the former’s ball passed through the latter’s hat) having detected a discrepancy between his name (assuming he was the person he represented himself to be and not sailing under false colours after having boxed the compass on the strict q.t. somewhere) and the fictitious addressee of the missive which made him nourish some suspicions of our friend’s Bona FIDES nevertheless it reminded him in a way of a longcherished plan he meant to one day realise some Wednesday or Saturday of travelling to London via long sea not to say that he had ever travelled extensively to any great extent but he was at heart a born adventurer though by a trick of fate he had consistently remained a landlubber except you call going to Holyhead which was his longest.  Martin Cunningham frequently said he would work a pass through Egan but some deuced hitch or other eternally cropped up with the net result that the scheme fell through.  But even suppose it did come to planking down the needful and breaking Boyd’s heart it was not so dear, purse permitting, a few guineas at the outside considering the fare to Mullingar where he figured on going was five and