awoke a horse of the cabrank.  A hoof scooped anyway for new foothold after sleep and harness jingled.  Slightly disturbed in his sentrybox by the brazier of live coke the watcher of the corporation stones who, though now broken down and fast breaking up, was none other in stern reality than the Gumley aforesaid, now practically on the parish rates, given the temporary job by Pat Tobin in all human probability from dictates of humanity knowing him before shifted about and shuffled in his box before composing his limbs again in to the arms of Morpheus, a truly amazing piece of hard lines in its most virulent form on a fellow most respectably connected and familiarised with decent home comforts all his life who came in for a cool 100 pounds a year at one time which of course the doublebarrelled ass proceeded to make general ducks and drakes of.  And there he was at the end of his tether after having often painted the town tolerably pink without a beggarly stiver.  He drank needless to be told and it pointed only once more a moral when he might quite easily be in a large way of business if—­a big if, however—­he had contrived to cure himself of his particular partiality.

All meantime were loudly lamenting the falling off in Irish shipping, coastwise and foreign as well, which was all part and parcel of the same thing.  A Palgrave Murphy boat was put off the ways at Alexandra basin, the only launch that year.  Right enough the harbours were there only no ships ever called.

There were wrecks and wreckers, the keeper said, who was evidently au Fait.

What he wanted to ascertain was why that ship ran bang against the only rock in Galway bay when the Galway harbour scheme was mooted by a Mr Worthington or some name like that, eh?  Ask the then captain, he advised them, how much palmoil the British government gave him for that day’s work, Captain John Lever of the Lever Line.

—­Am I right, skipper? he queried of the sailor, now returning after his private potation and the rest of his exertions.

That worthy picking up the scent of the fagend of the song or words growled in wouldbe music but with great vim some kind of chanty or other in seconds or thirds.  Mr Bloom’s sharp ears heard him then expectorate the plug probably (which it was), so that he must have lodged it for the time being in his fist while he did the drinking and making water jobs and found it a bit sour after the liquid fire in question.  Anyhow in he rolled after his successful libation-cum-potation, introducing an atmosphere of drink into the soiree, boisterously trolling, like a veritable son of a seacook: 

    —­The biscuits was as hard as brass
      and the beef as salt as lot’s wife’s arse. 
      O, johnny lever! 
      Johnny lever, O!