Page 794 - ULYSSES

Ulysses

struck by the stare of truculent Wellington, but in the convex
mirror grin unstruck the bonham eyes and fatchuck cheekchops of
Jollypoldy the rixdix doldy.

At Antonio Pabaiotti’s door Bloom halts, sweated under the
bright arclamp. He disappears. In a moment he reappears and
hurries on.)
BLOOM: Fish and taters. N. g. Ah!
(He disappears into Olhausen’s, the porkbutcher’s, under the
downcoming rollshutter. A few moments later he emerges from
under the shutter, puffing Poldy, blowing Bloohoom. In each
hand he holds a parcel, one containing a lukewarm pig’s crubeen,
the other a cold sheep’s trotter, sprinkled with wholepepper. He
gasps, standing upright. Then bending to one side he presses a
parcel against his ribs and groans.)
BLOOM: Stitch in my side. Why did I run?
(He takes breath with care and goes forward slowly towards
the lampset siding. The glow leaps again.)
BLOOM: What is that? A flasher? Searchlight.
(He stands at Cormack’s corner, watching)
BLOOM: Aurora borealis or a steel foundry? Ah, the
brigade, of course. South side anyhow. Big blaze. Might
be his house. Beggar’s bush. We’re safe. (He hums
cheerfully) London’s burning, London’s burning! On fire,
on fire! (He catches sight of the navvy lurching through the crowd

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