Ulysses

No fixed abode. Unlawfully watching and besetting. Second Watch An alibi. You are cautioned. Bloom Produces from his heartpocket a crumpled yellow flower. This is the flower in question. It was given me by a man I don’t know his name. Plausibly. You know that old joke, rose of Castile. Bloom. The change of name. Virag. He murmurs privately and confidentially. We are engaged you see, sergeant. Lady in the case. Love entanglement. He shoulders the second watch gently. Dash it all. It’s a way we gallants have in the navy. Uniform that does it. He turns gravely to the first watch. Still, of course, you do get your Waterloo sometimes. Drop in some evening and have a glass of old Burgundy. To the second watch gaily. I’ll introduce you, inspector. She’s game. Do it in the shake of a lamb’s tail. A dark mercurialised face appears, leading a veiled figure. The Dark Mercury The Castle is looking for him. He was drummed out of the army. Martha Thickveiled, a crimson halter round her neck, a copy of the Irish Times in her hand, in tone of reproach, pointing. Henry! Leopold! Leopold! Lionel, thou lost one! Clear my name. First Watch Sternly. Come to the station. Bloom Scared, hats himself, steps back then, plucking at his heart and lifting his right forearm on the square, he gives the sign and dueguard of fellowcraft. No, no, worshipful master, light of love. Mistaken identity. The Lyons mail. Lesurques and Dubosc. You remember the Childs fratricide case. We medical men. By striking him dead with a hatchet, I am wrongfully accused. Better one guilty escape than ninetynine wrongfully condemned. Martha Sobbing behind her veil. Breach of promise. My real name is Peggy Griffin. He wrote to me that he was miserable. I’ll tell my brother, the Bective rugger fullback, on you, heartless flirt. Bloom Behind his hand. She’s drunk. The woman is inebriated. He murmurs vaguely the past of Ephraim. Shitbroleeth. Second Watch Tears in his eyes, to Bloom. You ought to be thoroughly well ashamed of yourself. Bloom Gentlemen of the jury, let me explain. A pure mare’s nest. I am a man misunderstood. I am being made a scapegoat of. I am a respectable married man, without a stain on my character. I live in Eccles street. My wife, I am the daughter of a most distinguished commander, a gallant upstanding gentleman, what do you call him, Majorgeneral Brian Tweedy, one of Britain’s fighting men who helped to win our battles. Got his majority for the heroic defence of Rorke’s Drift. First Watch Regiment. Bloom Turns to the gallery. The royal Dublins, boys, the salt of the earth, known the world over. I think I see some old comrades in arms up there among you. The R. D. F. With our own Metropolitan police, guardians of our homes, the pluckiest lads and the finest body of men, as physique, in the service of our sovereign. A Voice Turncoat! Up the Boers! Who booed Joe Chamberlain? Bloom His hand on the shoulder of the first watch. My old dad too was a J. P. I’m as staunch a Britisher as you are, sir. I fought with the colours for king and country in the absentminded war under general Gough in the park and was disabled at Spion Kop and Bloemfontein, was mentioned in dispatches. I did all a white man could. With quiet feeling. Jim Bludso. Hold her nozzle again the bank. First Watch Profession or trade. Bloom Well, I follow a literary occupation. Author-journalist. In fact we are just bringing out a collection of prize stories of which I am the inventor, something that is an entirely new departure. I am connected with the British and Irish press. If you ring up⁠ ⁠… Myles Crawford strides out jerkily, a quill between his teeth. His scarlet beak blazes within the aureole of his straw hat. He dangles a hank of Spanish onions in one hand and holds with the other hand a telephone receiver nozzle to his ear. Myles Crawford His cock’s wattles wagging. Hello, seventyseven eightfour. Hello. Freeman’s Urinal and Weekly Arsewiper here. Paralyse Europe. You which? Bluebags? Who writes? Is it Bloom? Mr Philip Beaufoy, palefaced, stands in the witnessbox, in accurate morning dress, outbreast pocket with peak of handkerchief showing, creased lavender trousers and patent boots. He carries a large portfolio labelled Matcham’s Masterstrokes. Beaufoy Drawls. No, you aren’t, not by a long shot if I know it. I don’t see it, that’s all. No born gentleman, no one with the most rudimentary promptings of a gentleman would stoop to such particularly loathsome conduct. One of those, my lord. A plagiarist. A soapy sneak masquerading as a literateur. It’s perfectly obvious that with the most inherent baseness he has cribbed some of my bestselling books, really gorgeous stuff, a perfect gem, the love passages in which are beneath suspicion. The Beaufoy books of love and great possessions with which your lordship is doubtless familiar, are a household word throughout the kingdom. Bloom Murmurs with hangdog meekness. That bit about the laughing witch hand in hand I take exception to, if I may⁠ ⁠… Beaufoy His lip upcurled, smiles superciliously on the court. You funny ass, you! You’re too beastly awfully weird for words! I don’t think you need over excessively disincommodate yourself in that regard. My literary agent Mr J. B. Pinker is in attendance. I presume, my lord, we shall receive the usual witnesses’ fees, shan’t we! We are considerably out of pocket over this bally pressman johnny, this jackdaw of Rheims, who has not even been to a university. Bloom Indistinctly. University of life. Bad art. Beaufoy Shouts. It’s a damnably foul lie showing the moral rottenness of the man! He extends his portfolio. We have here damning evidence, the corpus delicti, my lord, a specimen of my maturer work disfigured by the hallmark