Page 176 - ULYSSES

Ulysses

Their eyes watched him. On the slow weedy waterway
he had floated on his raft coastward over Ireland drawn by
a haulage rope past beds of reeds, over slime, mudchoked
bottles, carrion dogs. Athlone, Mullingar, Moyvalley, I

could make a walking tour to see Milly by the canal. Or
cycle down. Hire some old crock, safety. Wren had one
the other day at the auction but a lady’s. Developing
waterways. James M’Cann’s hobby to row me o’er the
ferry. Cheaper transit. By easy stages. Houseboats.
Camping out. Also hearses. To heaven by water. Perhaps I
will without writing. Come as a surprise, Leixlip,
Clonsilla. Dropping down lock by lock to Dublin. With
turf from the midland bogs. Salute. He lifted his brown
straw hat, saluting Paddy Dignam.
They drove on past Brian Boroimhe house. Near it
now.
—I wonder how is our friend Fogarty getting on, Mr
Power said.
—Better ask Tom Kernan, Mr Dedalus said.
—How is that? Martin Cunningham said. Left him
weeping, I suppose?
—Though lost to sight, Mr Dedalus said, to memory
dear.
The carriage steered left for Finglas road.

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