Page 812 - ULYSSES

Ulysses

THE LOITERERS: Jays, that’s a good one. Glauber
salts. O jays, into the men’s porter.
(Bloom passes. Cheap whores, singly, coupled, shawled,

dishevelled, call from lanes, doors, corners.)
THE WHORES:

Are you going far, queer fellow?
How’s your middle leg?
Got a match on you?
Eh, come here till I stiffen it for you.

(He plodges through their sump towards the lighted street
beyond. From a bulge of window curtains a gramophone rears a
battered brazen trunk. In the shadow a shebeenkeeper haggles
with the navvy and the two redcoats.)
THE NAVVY: (Belching) Where’s the bloody house?
THE SHEBEENKEEPER: Purdon street. Shilling a
bottle of stout. Respectable woman.
THE NAVVY: (Gripping the two redcoats, staggers forward
with them) Come on, you British army!
PRIVATE CARR: (Behind his back) He aint half
balmy.
PRIVATE COMPTON: (Laughs) What ho!
PRIVATE CARR: (To the navvy) Portobello barracks
canteen. You ask for Carr. Just Carr.

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