Page 731 - ULYSSES

Ulysses

had it pat. To tell the truth he was mean in fortunes and
for the most part hankered about the coffeehouses and low
taverns with crimps, ostlers, bookies, Paul’s men, runners,
flatcaps, waistcoateers, ladies of the bagnio and other

rogues of the game or with a chanceable catchpole or a
tipstaff often at nights till broad day of whom he picked up
between his sackpossets much loose gossip. He took his
ordinary at a boilingcook’s and if he had but gotten into
him a mess of broken victuals or a platter of tripes with a
bare tester in his purse he could always bring himself off
with his tongue, some randy quip he had from a punk or
whatnot that every mother’s son of them would burst their
sides. The other, Costello that is, hearing this talk asked
was it poetry or a tale. Faith, no, he says, Frank (that was
his name), ‘tis all about Kerry cows that are to be
butchered along of the plague. But they can go hang, says
he with a wink, for me with their bully beef, a pox on it.
There’s as good fish in this tin as ever came out of it and
very friendly he offered to take of some salty sprats that
stood by which he had eyed wishly in the meantime and
found the place which was indeed the chief design of his
embassy as he was sharpset. Mort aux vaches, says Frank
then in the French language that had been indentured to a
brandyshipper that has a winelodge in Bordeaux and he

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