While the other was reading it on page two Boom (to give him for the nonce his new misnomer) whiled away a few odd leisure moments in fits and starts with the account of the third event at Ascot on page three, his side.  Value 1000 sovs with 3000 sovs in specie added.  For entire colts and fillies.  Mr F. Alexander’s throwaway, b. h. by RIGHTAWAY, 5 yrs, 9 st 4 lbs (W.  Lane) 1, lord Howard de Walden’s Zinfandel (M.  Cannon) z, Mr W. Bass’s sceptre 3.  Betting 5 to 4 on Zinfandel, 20 to 1 throwaway (off).  Sceptre a shade heavier, 5 to 4 on Zinfandel, 20 to 1 throwaway (off).  Throwaway and Zinfandel stood close order.  It was anybody’s race then the rank outsider drew to the fore, got long lead, beating lord Howard de Walden’s chestnut colt and Mr W. Bass’s bay filly sceptre on a 2 1/2 mile course.  Winner trained by Braime so that Lenehan’s version of the business was all pure buncombe.  Secured the verdict cleverly by a length. 1000 sovs with 3000 in specie.  Also ran:  J de Bremond’s (French horse Bantam Lyons was anxiously inquiring after not in yet but expected any minute) maximum II.  Different ways of bringing off a coup.  Lovemaking damages.  Though that halfbaked Lyons ran off at a tangent in his impetuosity to get left.  Of course gambling eminently lent itself to that sort of thing though as the event turned out the poor fool hadn’t much reason to congratulate himself on his pick, the forlorn hope.  Guesswork it reduced itself to eventually.

—­There was every indication they would arrive at that, he, Bloom, said.

—­Who? the other, whose hand by the way was hurt, said.

One morning you would open the paper, the cabman affirmed, and read:  Return of Parnell.  He bet them what they liked.  A Dublin fusilier was in that shelter one night and said he saw him in South Africa.  Pride it was killed him.  He ought to have done away with himself or lain low for a time after committee room no 15 until he was his old self again with no-one to point a finger at him.  Then they would all to a man have gone down on their marrowbones to him to come back when he had recovered his senses.  Dead he wasn’t.  Simply absconded somewhere.  The coffin they brought over was full of stones.  He changed his name to De Wet, the Boer general.  He made a mistake to fight the priests.  And so forth and so on.

All the same Bloom (properly so dubbed) was rather surprised at their memories for in nine cases out of ten it was a case of tarbarrels and not singly but in their thousands and then complete oblivion because it was twenty odd years.  Highly unlikely of course there was even a shadow of truth in the stones and, even supposing, he thought a return highly inadvisable, all things considered.  Something evidently riled them in his death.  Either he petered out too tamely of acute pneumonia just when his various different