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From its sluice in Wood quay wall under Tom Devan's office Poddle river hung out in fealty a tongue of liquid sewage. Above the crossblind of the Ormond hotel, gold by bronze, Miss Kennedy's head by Miss Douce's head watched and admired. On Ormond quay Mr Simon Dedalus, steering his way from the greenhouse for the subsheriff's office, stood still in midstreet and brought his hat low.
He's going to say a word to long John to get him to take those two men off. All I want is a little time. He looked with vague hope up and down the quay, a big apple bulging in his neck. I know, Mr Dedalus said, nodding. Poor old bockedy Ben! He's always doing a good turn for someone. Hold hard! He put on his glasses and gazed towards the metal bridge an instant.
Stephen stood up in his place to say the grace before meals: Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts which through Thy bounty we are about to receive through Christ our Lord. Amen. All blessed themselves and Mr Dedalus with a sigh of pleasure lifted from the dish the heavy cover pearled around the edge with glistening drops.
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, said the prefect of studies. Make up your minds for that. Every day Father Dolan. Write away. You, boy, who are you? Stephen's heart jumped suddenly. Dedalus, sir. Why are you not writing like the others? I...my... He could not speak with fright. Why is he not writing, Father Arnall? He broke his glasses, said Father Arnall, and I exempted him from work. Broke?
A boy came towards them, running along under the shed. He was excited and breathless. O, Dedalus, he cried, Doyle is in a great bake about you. You're to go in at once and get dressed for the play. Hurry up, you better. He's coming now, said Heron to the messenger with a haughty drawl, when he wants to. The boy turned to Heron and repeated: But Doyle is in an awful bake.
Stephen swallowed down the thing again and tried to keep his legs and his voice from shaking. But, sir Yes? Father Dolan came in today and pandied me because I was not writing my theme. The rector looked at him in silence and he could feel the blood rising to his face and the tears about to rise to his eyes. The rector said: Your name is Dedalus, isn't it? Yes, sir...
To the sellers in the market, to the barmen and barmaids, to the beggars who importuned him for a lob Mr Dedalus told the same tale that he was an old Corkonian, that he had been trying for thirty years to get rid of his Cork accent up in Dublin and that Peter Pickackafax beside him was his eldest son but that he was only a Dublin jackeen.
Are you trying to imitate your uncle John, the cornetplayer, head upon shoulder? Melancholy God! Dilly shrugged her shoulders. Mr Dedalus placed his hands on them and held them back. Stand up straight, girl, he said. You'll get curvature of the spine. Do you know what you look like? He let his head sink suddenly down and forward, hunching his shoulders and dropping his underjaw.
Within this maze was the celebrated Jardin Dedalus that Louis XI gave to Coictier, and above it rose the observatory of the savant like a signal tower of the Romans. This centered upon what is now the Place des Vosges, formerly the Place Royale. To-day, how changed is all this "intermediate, indeterminate" region! How changed, indeed! There is nothing vague and indeterminate about it to-day.
I believe he is in Dublin somewhere, Stephen answered unconcernedly. Why? A gifted man, Mr Bloom said of Mr Dedalus senior, in more respects than one and a born raconteur if ever there was one. He takes great pride, quite legitimate, out of you.
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