Testily he made room for himself beside Long John Fanning's flank and passed in and up the stairs.
-- Come on up， Martin Cunningham said to the subsheriff. I don't think you knew him or perhaps you did， though.
With John Wyse Nolan Mr Power followed them in.
-- Decent little soul he was， Mr Power said to the stalwart back of Long John Fanning ascending towards Long John Fanning in the mirror.
-- Rather lowsized， Dignam of Menton's office that was， Martin Cunningham said.
Long John Fanning could not remember him.
Clatter of horsehoofs sounded from the air.
-- What's that？ Martin Cunningham said.
All turned where they stood； John Wyse Nolan came down again. From the cool shadow of the doorway he saw the horses pass Parliament street， harness and glossy pasterns in sunlight shimmering. Gaily they went past before his cool unfriendly eyes， not quickly. In saddles of the leaders， leaping leaders， rode outriders.
-- What was it？ Martin Cunningham asked， as they went on up the staircase.
-- The lord lieutenant general and general governor of Ireland， John Wyse Nolan answered from the stairfoot.
As they trod across the thick carpet Buck Mulligan whispered behind his panama to Haines.
-- Parnell's brother. There in the corner.
They chose a small table near the window opposite a long-faced man whose beard and gaze hung intently down on a chessboard.
-- Is that he？ Haines asked， twisting round in his seat.
-- Yes， Mulligan said. That's John Howard， his brother， our city marshal.
John Howard Parnell translated a white bishop quietly and his grey claw went up again to his forehead whereat it rested.
An instant after， under its screen， his eyes looked quickly， ghostbright， at his foe and fell once more upon a working corner.
-- I'll take a mélange， Haines said to the waitress.
-- Two mélanges， Buck Mulligan said. And bring us some scones and butter and some cakes as well.
When she had gone he said， laughing：
-- We call it D. B. C. because they have damn bad cakes. O， but you missed Dedalus on Hamlet.
Haines opened his newbought book.
-- I'm sorry， he said. Shakespeare is the happy huntingground of all minds that have lost their balance.
The onelegged sailor growled at the area of 14 Nelson street：
-- England expects...
Buck Mulligan's primrose waistcoat shook gaily to his laughter.
-- You should see him， he said， when his body loses its balance. Wandering &Aelig；ngus I call him.
-- I am sure he has an idée fixe， Haines said， pinching his chin thoughtfully with thumb and forefinger. Now I am speculating what it would be likely to be. Such persons always have.
Buck Mulligan bent across the table gravely.
-- They drove his wits astray， he said， by visions of hell. He will never capture the Attic note. The note of Swinburne， of all poets， the white death and the ruddy birth. That is his tragedy. He can never be a poet. The joy of creation.
-- Eternal punishment， Haines said， nodding curtly. I see. I tackled him this morning on belief. There was something on his mind， I saw. It's rather interesting because Professor Pokorny of Vienna makes an interesting point out of that.
Buck Mulligan's watchful eyes saw the waitress come. He helped her to unload her tray.
-- He can find no trace of hell in ancient Irish myth， Haines said， amid the cheerful cups. The moral idea seems lacking， the sense of destiny， of retribution. Rather strange he should have just that fixed idea. Does he write anything for your movement？
He sank two lumps of sugar deftly longwise through the whipped cream. Buck Mulligan slit a steaming scone in two and plastered butter over its smoking pith. He bit off a soft piece hungrily.
-- Ten years， he said， chewing and laughing. He is going to write something in ten years.
-- Seems a long way off， Haines said， thoughtfully lifting his spoon. Still， I shouldn't wonder if he did after all.
He tasted a spoonful from the creamy cone of his cup.
-- This is real Irish cream I take it， he said with forbearance. I don't want to be imposed on.
Elijah， skiff， light crumpled throwaway， sailed eastward by flanks of ships and trawlers， amid an archipelago of corks， beyond new Wapping street past Benson's ferry， and by the three-masted schooner Rosevean from Bridgwater with bricks.
Almidano Artifoni walked past Holles street， past Sewell's yard. Behind him Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell with stickumbrelladustcoat dangling， shunned the lamp before Mr Law Smith's house and， crossing， walked along Merrion square. Distantly behind him a blind stripling tapped his way by the wall of College Park.
Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell walked as far as Mr Lewis Werner's cheerful windows， then turned and strode back along Merrion square， his stickumbrelladustcoat dangling.
At the corner of Wilde's he halted， frowned at Elijah's name announced on the Metropolitan Hall， frowned at the distant pleasance of duke's lawn. His eyeglass flashed frowning in the sun. With ratsteeth bared he muttered：
-- Coactus volui.
He strode on for Clare street， grinding his fierce word.
As he strode past Mr Bloom's dental windows the sway of his dustcoat brushed rudely from its angle a slender tapping cane and swept onwards， having buffeted a thewless body. The blind stripling turned his sickly face after the striding form.
-- God's curse on you， he said sourly， whoever you are！ You're blinder nor I am， you bitch's bastard！
Opposite Ruggy O'Donohoe's Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam， pawing the pound and half of Mangan's， late Fehrenbach's， porksteaks he had been sent for， went along warm Wicklow street dawdling. It was too blooming dull sitting in the parlour with Mrs Stoer and Mrs Quigley and Mrs MacDowell and the blind down and they all at their sniffles and sipping sups of the superior tawny sherry uncle Barney brought from Tunney's. And they eating crumbs of the cottage fruit cake jawing the whole blooming time and sighing.
