Page 209 - ULYSSES

Ulysses

On the brewery float bumped dullthudding barrels rolled
by grossbooted draymen out of Prince’s stores.
—There it is, Red Murray said. Alexander Keyes.
—Just cut it out, will you? Mr Bloom said, and I’ll take

it round to the Telegraph office.
The door of Ruttledge’s office creaked again. Davy
Stephens, minute in a large capecoat, a small felt hat
crowning his ringlets, passed out with a roll of papers
under his cape, a king’s courier.
Red Murray’s long shears sliced out the advertisement
from the newspaper in four clean strokes. Scissors and
paste.
—I’ll go through the printingworks, Mr Bloom said,
taking the cut square.
—Of course, if he wants a par, Red Murray said
earnestly, a pen behind his ear, we can do him one.
—Right, Mr Bloom said with a nod. I’ll rub that in.
We.

WILLIAM BRAYDEN, ESQUIRE, OF
OAKLANDS, SANDYMOUNT

Red Murray touched Mr Bloom’s arm with the shears
and whispered:
—Brayden.

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