Page 304 - ULYSSES

Ulysses

An illgirt server gathered sticky clattering plates. Rock,
the head bailiff, standing at the bar blew the foamy crown
from his tankard. Well up: it splashed yellow near his
boot. A diner, knife and fork upright, elbows on table,

ready for a second helping stared towards the foodlift
across his stained square of newspaper. Other chap telling
him something with his mouth full. Sympathetic listener.
Table talk. I munched hum un thu Unchster Bunk un
Munchday. Ha? Did you, faith?
Mr Bloom raised two fingers doubtfully to his lips. His
eyes said:
—Not here. Don’t see him.
Out. I hate dirty eaters.
He backed towards the door. Get a light snack in Davy
Byrne’s. Stopgap. Keep me going. Had a good breakfast.
—Roast and mashed here.
—Pint of stout.
Every fellow for his own, tooth and nail. Gulp. Grub.
Gulp. Gobstuff.
He came out into clearer air and turned back towards
Grafton street. Eat or be eaten. Kill! Kill!
Suppose that communal kitchen years to come perhaps.
All trotting down with porringers and tommycans to be
filled. Devour contents in the street. John Howard Parnell

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