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Updated: May 21, 2025
Widow woman, says Ned. I wouldn't doubt her. Wonder did he put that bible to the same use as I would. Same only more so, says Lenehan. And thereafter in that fruitful land the broadleaved mango flourished exceedingly. Is that by Griffith? says John Wyse. No, says the citizen. It's not signed Shanganagh. It's only initialled: P. And a very good initial too, says Joe.
"Have you got nerve enough to pass the Kicker around to the people of this town?" he questioned. "I reckon," grinned the youth. "I was comin' down to ast you for the job when you bumped into me. I used to peddle them for your dad. My name's Jiggs Lenehan mebbe you've heard of me?" Hollis smiled. "The question of delivering the Kicker was one of the details that I overlooked," he said.
Here the noise of trams, the lights and the crowd released them from their silence. "There she is!" said Corley. At the corner of Hume Street a young woman was standing. She wore a blue dress and a white sailor hat. She stood on the curbstone, swinging a sunshade in one hand. Lenehan grew lively. "Let's have a look at her, Corley," he said.
But she thinks I'm a bit of class, you know." Lenehan laughed again, noiselessly. "Of all the good ones ever I heard," he said, "that emphatically takes the biscuit." Corley's stride acknowledged the compliment. The swing of his burly body made his friend execute a few light skips from the path to the roadway and back again.
His bulk, his easy pace, and the solid sound of his boots had something of the conqueror in them. He approached the young woman and, without saluting, began at once to converse with her. She swung her umbrella more quickly and executed half turns on her heels. Once or twice when he spoke to her at close quarters she laughed and bent her head. Lenehan observed them for a few minutes.
"By one who has tried them all," said Lenehan. "First I used to go with girls, you know," said Corley, unbosoming; "girls off the South Circular. I used to take them out, man, on the tram somewhere and pay the tram or take them to a band or a play at the theatre or buy them chocolate and sweets or something that way.
Is it that whiteeyed kaffir? says the citizen, that never backed a horse in anger in his life? That's where he's gone, says Lenehan. I met Bantam Lyons going to back that horse only I put him off it and he told me Bloom gave him the tip. Bet you what you like he has a hundred shillings to five on. He's the only man in Dublin has it. A dark horse. He's a bloody dark horse himself, says Joe.
An imperial yeomanry, says Lenehan, to celebrate the occasion. Half one, Terry, says John Wyse, and a hands up. Terry! Are you asleep? Yes, sir, says Terry. Small whisky and bottle of Allsop. Right, sir. Hanging over the bloody paper with Alf looking for spicy bits instead of attending to the general public.
Both smiled over the crossblind at the file of capering newsboys in Mr Bloom's wake, the last zigzagging white on the breeze a mocking kite, a tail of white bowknots. Look at the young guttersnipe behind him hue and cry, Lenehan said, and you'll kick. O, my rib risible! Taking off his flat spaugs and the walk. Small nines. Steal upon larks.
Or was it you shot the lord lieutenant of Finland between you? You look as though you had done the deed. General Bobrikoff. We were only thinking about it, Stephen said. All the talents, Myles Crawford said. Law, the classics... The turf, Lenehan put in. Literature, the press. If Bloom were here, the professor said. The gentle art of advertisement. And Madam Bloom, Mr O'Madden Burke added.
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