No, mother!  Let me be and let me live.

—­Kinch ahoy!

Buck Mulligan’s voice sang from within the tower.  It came nearer up the staircase, calling again.  Stephen, still trembling at his soul’s cry, heard warm running sunlight and in the air behind him friendly words.

—­Dedalus, come down, like a good mosey.  Breakfast is ready.  Haines is apologising for waking us last night.  It’s all right.

—­I’m coming, Stephen said, turning.

—­Do, for Jesus’ sake, Buck Mulligan said.  For my sake and for all our sakes.

His head disappeared and reappeared.

—­I told him your symbol of Irish art.  He says it’s very clever.  Touch him for a quid, will you?  A guinea, I mean.

—­I get paid this morning, Stephen said.

—­The school kip?  Buck Mulligan said.  How much?  Four quid?  Lend us one.

—­If you want it, Stephen said.

—­Four shining sovereigns, Buck Mulligan cried with delight.  We’ll have a glorious drunk to astonish the druidy druids.  Four omnipotent sovereigns.

He flung up his hands and tramped down the stone stairs, singing out of tune with a Cockney accent: 

    O, won’t we have A merry time,
    drinking whisky, beer and wine! 
    On coronation,
    coronation day! 
    O, won’t we have A merry time
    on coronation day!

Warm sunshine merrying over the sea.  The nickel shavingbowl shone, forgotten, on the parapet.  Why should I bring it down?  Or leave it there all day, forgotten friendship?

He went over to it, held it in his hands awhile, feeling its coolness, smelling the clammy slaver of the lather in which the brush was stuck.  So I carried the boat of incense then at Clongowes.  I am another now and yet the same.  A servant too.  A server of a servant.

In the gloomy domed livingroom of the tower Buck Mulligan’s gowned form moved briskly to and fro about the hearth, hiding and revealing its yellow glow.  Two shafts of soft daylight fell across the flagged floor from the high barbacans:  and at the meeting of their rays a cloud of coalsmoke and fumes of fried grease floated, turning.

—­We’ll be choked, Buck Mulligan said.  Haines, open that door, will you?

Stephen laid the shavingbowl on the locker.  A tall figure rose from the hammock where it had been sitting, went to the doorway and pulled open the inner doors.

—­Have you the key? a voice asked.

—­Dedalus has it, Buck Mulligan said.  Janey Mack, I’m choked!

He howled, without looking up from the fire: 

—­Kinch!

—­It’s in the lock, Stephen said, coming forward.

The key scraped round harshly twice and, when the heavy door had been set ajar, welcome light and bright air entered.  Haines stood at the doorway, looking out.  Stephen haled his upended valise to the table and sat down to wait.  Buck Mulligan tossed the fry on to the dish beside him.  Then he carried the dish and a large teapot over to the table, set them down heavily and sighed with relief.