Page 951 - ULYSSES

Ulysses

I’ll give ten to one!
Ten to one bar one!

(A dark horse, riderless, bolts like a phantom past the
winningpost, his mane moonfoaming, his eyeballs stars. The field
follows, a bunch of bucking mounts. Skeleton horses, Sceptre,

Maximum the Second, Zinfandel, the Duke of Westminster’s
Shotover, Repulse, the Duke of Beaufort’s Ceylon, prix de
Paris. Dwarfs ride them, rustyarmoured, leaping, leaping in their,
in their saddles. Last in a drizzle of rain on a brokenwinded
isabelle nag, Cock of the North, the favourite, honey cap, green
jacket, orange sleeves, Garrett Deasy up, gripping the reins, a
hockeystick at the ready. His nag on spavined whitegaitered feet
jogs along the rocky road.)
THE ORANGE LODGES: (Jeering) Get down and
push, mister. Last lap! You’ll be home the night!
GARRETT DEASY: (Bolt upright, his nailscraped face
plastered with postagestamps, brandishes his hockeystick, his blue
eyes flashing in the prism of the chandelier as his mount lopes by
at schooling gallop)
Per vias rectas!
(A yoke of buckets leopards all over him and his rearing nag a
torrent of mutton broth with dancing coins of carrots, barley,
onions, turnips, potatoes.)

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