Page 434 - ULYSSES

Ulysses

Bad times those were. Well, well. Over and done with.
Great topers too. Fourbottle men.
Let me see. Is he buried in saint Michan’s? Or no, there
was a midnight burial in Glasnevin. Corpse brought in

through a secret door in the wall. Dignam is there now.
Went out in a puff. Well, well. Better turn down here.
Make a detour.
Mr Kernan turned and walked down the slope of
Watling street by the corner of Guinness’s visitors’
waitingroom. Outside the Dublin Distillers Company’s
stores an outside car without fare or jarvey stood, the reins
knotted to the wheel. Damn dangerous thing. Some
Tipperary bosthoon endangering the lives of the citizens.
Runaway horse.
Denis Breen with his tomes, weary of having waited an
hour in John Henry Menton’s office, led his wife over
O’Connell bridge, bound for the office of Messrs Collis
and Ward.
Mr Kernan approached Island street.
Times of the troubles. Must ask Ned Lambert to lend
me those reminiscences of sir Jonah Barrington. When
you look back on it all now in a kind of retrospective
arrangement. Gaming at Daly’s. No cardsharping then.
One of those fellows got his hand nailed to the table by a

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