Page 311 - ULYSSES

Ulysses

—True for you, Nosey Flynn said. Unless you’re in the
know. There’s no straight sport going now. Lenehan gets
some good ones. He’s giving Sceptre today. Zinfandel’s
the favourite, lord Howard de Walden’s, won at Epsom.

Morny Cannon is riding him. I could have got seven to
one against Saint Amant a fortnight before.
—That so? Davy Byrne said ...
He went towards the window and, taking up the
pettycash book, scanned its pages.
—I could, faith, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling. That was
a rare bit of horseflesh. Saint Frusquin was her sire. She
won in a thunderstorm, Rothschild’s filly, with wadding
in her ears. Blue jacket and yellow cap. Bad luck to big
Ben Dollard and his John O’Gaunt. He put me off it. Ay.
He drank resignedly from his tumbler, running his
fingers down the flutes.
—Ay, he said, sighing.
Mr Bloom, champing, standing, looked upon his sigh.
Nosey numbskull. Will I tell him that horse Lenehan? He
knows already. Better let him forget. Go and lose more.
Fool and his money. Dewdrop coming down again. Cold
nose he’d have kissing a woman. Still they might like.
Prickly beards they like. Dogs’ cold noses. Old Mrs
Riordan with the rumbling stomach’s Skye terrier in the

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