尤利西斯-第41章

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r。　Other　chap　telling　him　something　with　his　mouth　full。　Sympathetic　listener。　Table　talk。　I　munched　hum　un　thu　Unchster　Bunk　un　Munchday。　Ha？　Did　you；　faith？　
Mr　Bloom　raised　two　fingers　doubtfully　to　his　lips。　His　eyes　said。　
　Not　here。　Don't　see　him。　
Out。　I　hate　dirty　eaters。　
He　backed　towards　the　door。　Get　a　light　snack　in　Davy　Byrne's。　Stopgap。　Keep　me　going。　Had　a　good　breakfast。　
　Roast　and　mashed　here。　
　Pint　of　stout。　
Every　fellow　for　his　own；　tooth　and　nail。　Gulp。　Grub。　Gulp。　Gobstuff。　
He　came　out　into　clearer　air　and　turned　back　towards　Grafton　street。　Eat　or　be　eaten。　Kill！　Kill！　
Suppose　that　munal　kitchen　years　to　e　perhaps。　All　trotting　down　with　porringers　and　tommycans　to　be　filled。　Devour　contents　in　the　street。　John　Howard　Parnell　example　the　provost　of　Trinity　every　mother's　son　don't　talk　of　your　provosts　and　provost　of　Trinity　women　and　children；　cabmen；　priests；　parsons；　fieldmarshals；　archbishops。　From　Ailesbury　road；　Clyde　road；　artisans'　dwellings；　north　Dublin　union；　lord　ma　in　his　gingerbread　coach；　old　queen　in　a　bathchair。　My　plate's　empty。　After　you　with　our　incorporated　drinkingcup。　Like　sir　Philip　Crampton's　fountain。　Rub　off　the　microbes　with　your　handkerchief。　Next　chap　rubs　on　a　new　batch　with　his。　Father　O'Flynn　would　make　hares　of　them　all。　Have　rows　all　the　same。　All　for　number　one。　Children　fighting　for　the　scrapings　of　the　pot。　Want　a　soup　pot　as　big　as　the　Phoenix　Park。　Harpooning　flitches　and　hindquarters　out　of　it。　Hate　people　all　round　you。　City　Arms　hotel　table　d'h？te　she　called　it。　Soup；　joint　and　sweet。　Never　know　whose　thoughts　you're　chewing。　Then　who'd　wash　up　all　the　plates　and　forks？　Might　be　all　feeding　on　tabloids　that　time。　Teeth　getting　worse　and　worse。　
After　all　there's　a　lot　in　that　vegetarian　fine　flavour　of　things　from　the　earth　garlic；　of　course；　it　stinks　Italian　organgrinders　crisp　of　onions；　mushrooms　truffles。　Pain　to　animal　too。　Pluck　and　draw　fowl。　Wretched　brutes　there　at　the　cattlemarket　waiting　for　the　poleaxe　to　split　their　skulls　open。　Moo。　Poor　trembling　calves。　Meh。　Staggering　bob。　Bubble　and　squeak。　Butchers'　buckets　wobble　lights。　Give　us　that　brisket　off　the　hook。　Plup。　Rawhead　and　bloody　bones。　Flayed　glasseyed　sheep　hung　from　their　haunches；　sheepsnouts　bloodypapered　snivelling　nosejam　on　sawdust。　Top　and　lashers　going　out。　Don't　maul　them　pieces；　young　one。　
Hot　fresh　blood　they　prescribe　for　decline。　Blood　always　needed。　Insidious。　Lick　it　up；　smoking　hot；　thick　sugary。　Famished　ghosts。　
Ah；　I'm　hungry。　
He　entered　Davy　Byrne's。　Moral　pub。　He　doesn't　chat。　Stands　a　drink　now　and　then。　But　in　leapyear　once　in　four。　Cashed　a　cheque　for　me　once。　
What　will　I　take　now？　He　drew　his　watch。　Let　me　see　now。　Shandygaff？　
　Hellow；　Bloom！　Nosey　Flynn　said　from　his　nook。　
　Hello；　Flynn。　
　How's　things？　
　Tiptop。。。　Let　me　see。　I'll　take　a　glass　of　burgundy　and。。。　let　me　see。　
Sardines　on　the　shelves。　Almost　taste　them　by　looking。　Sandwich？　Ham　and　his　descendants　mustered　and　bred　there。　Potted　meats。　What　is　home　without　Plumtree's　potted　meat？　Inplete。　What　a　stupid　ad！　Under　the　obituary　notices　they　stuck　it。　All　up　a　plumtree　Dignam's　potted　meat。　Cannibals　would　with　lemon　and　rice。　White　missionary　too　salty。　Like　pickled　pork。　Expect　the　chief　consumes　the　parts　of　honour。　Ought　to　be　tough　from　exercise。　His　wives　in　a　row　to　watch　the　effect。　There　was　a　right　royal　old　nigger。　Who　ate　or　something　the　somethings　of　the　reverend　Mr　MacTrigger。　With　it　an　abode　of　bliss。　Lord　knows　what　concoction。　Cauls　mouldy　tripes　windpipes　faked　and　minced　up。　Puzzle　find　the　meat。　Kosher。　No　meat　and　milk　together。　Hygiene　that　was　what　they　call　now。　Yom　Kippur　fast　spring　cleaning　of　inside。　Peace　and　war　depend　on　some　fellow's　digestion。　Religions。　Christmas　turkeys　and　geese。　Slaughter　of　innocents。　Eat；　drink　and　be　merry。　Then　casual　wards　full　after。　Heads　bandaged。　Cheese　digests　all　but　itself。　Mighty　cheese。　
　Have　you　a　cheese　sandwich？　
　Yes；　sir。　
Like　a　few　olives　too　if　they　had　them。　Italian　I　prefer。　Good　glass　of　burgundy；　take　away　that。　Lubricate。　A　nice　salad；　cool　as　a　cucumber。　Tom　Kernan　can　dress。　Puts　gusto　into　it。　Pure　olive　oil。　Milly　served　me　that　cutlet　with　a　sprig　of　parsley。　Take　one　Spanish　onion。　God　made　food；　the　devil　the　cooks。　Devilled　crab。　
　Wife　well？　
　Quite　well；　thanks。。。　A　cheese　sandwich；　then。　Gorgonzola；　have　you？　
　Yes；　sir。　
Nosey　Flynn　sipped　his　grog。　
　Doing　any　singing　those　times？　
Look　at　his　mouth。　Could　whistle　in　his　own　ear。　Flap　ears　to　match。　Music。　Knows　as　much　about　it　as　my　coachman。　Still　better　tell　him。　Does　no　harm。　Free　ad。　
　She's　engaged　for　a　big　tour　end　of　this　month。　You　may　have　heard　perhaps。　
　No。　O；　that's　the　style。　Who's　getting　it　up？　
The　curate　served。　
　How　much　is　that？　
　Seven　d。；　sir。。。　Thank　you；　sir。　
Mr　Bloom　cut　his　sandwich　into　slender　strips。　Mr　MacTrier。　Easier　than　the　dreamy　creamy　stuff。　His　five　hundred　wives。　Had　the　time　of　their　lives。　
　Mustard；　sir？　
　Thank　you。　
He　studded　under　each　lifted　strip　yellow　blobs。　Their　lives。　I　have　it。　It　grew　bigger　and　bigger　and　bigger。　
　Getting　it　up？　he　said。　Well；　it's　like　a　pany　idea；　you　see。　Part　shares　and　part　profits。　
　Ay；　now　I　remember；　Nosey　Flynn　said；　putting　his　hand　in　his　pocket　to　scratch　his　groin。　Who　is　this　was　telling　me？　Isn't　Blazes　Boylan　mixed　up　in　it？　
A　warm　shock　of　air　heat　of　mustard　hauched　on　Mr　Bloom's　heart。　He　raised　his　eyes　and　met　the　stare　of　a　bilious　clock。　Two。　Pub　clock　five　minutes　fast。　Time　going　on。　Hands　moving。　Two。　Not　yet。　
His　midriff　yearned　then　upward；　sank　within　him；　yearned　more　longly；　longingly。　
Wine。　
He　smellsipped　the　cordial　juice　and；　bidding　his　throat　strongly　to　speed　it；　set　his　wineglass　delicately　down。　
　Yes；　he　said。　He's　the　organiser　in　point　of　fact。　
No　fear。　No　brains。　
Nosey　Flynn　snuffled　and　scratched。　Flea　having　a　good　square　meal。　
　He　had　a　good　slice　of　luck；　Jack　Mooney　was　telling　me；　over　that　boxing　match　Myler　Keogh　won　again　that　soldier　in　the　Portobello　barracks。　By　God；　he　had　the　little　kipper　down　in　the　county　Carlow　he　was　telling　me。。。　
Hope　that　dewdrop　doesn't　e　down　into　his　glass。　No；　snuffled　it　up。　
　For　near　a　month；　man；　before　it　came　off。　Sucking　duck　eggs　by　God　till　further　orders。　Keep　him　off　the　boose；　see？　O；　by　God；　Blazes　is　a　hairy　chap。　
Davy　Byrne　came　forward　from　the　hindbar　in　tuckstitched　shirtsleeves；　cleaning　his　lips　with　two　wipes　of　his　napkin。　Herring's　blush。　Whose　smile　upon　each　feature　plays　with　such　and　such　replete。　Too　much　fat　on　the　parsnips。　
　And　here's　himself　and　pepper　on　him；　Nosey　Flynn　said。　Can　you　give　us　a　good　one　for　the　Gold　cup？　
　I'm　off　that；　Mr　Flynn；　Davy　Byrne　answered。　I　never　put　anything　on　a　horse。　
　You're　right　there；　Nosey　Flynn　said。　
Mr　Bloom　ate　his　strips　of　sandwich；　fresh　clean　bread；　with　relish　of　disgust；　pungent　mustard；　the　feety　savour　of　green　cheese。　Sips　of　his　wine　soothed　his　palate。　Not　logwood　that。　Tastes　fuller　this　weather　with　the　chill　off。　
Nice　quiet　bar。　Nice　piece　of　wood　in　that　counter。　Nicely　planed。　Like　the　way　it　curves　there。　
　I　wouldn't　do　anything　at　all　in　that　line；　Davy　Byrne　said。　It　ruined　many　a　man　the　same　horses。　
Vintners'　sweepstake。　Licensed　for　the　sale　of　beer；　wine　and　spirits　for　consumption　on　the　premises。　Heads　I　win　tails　you　lose。　
　True　for　you；　Nosey　Flynn　said。　Unless　you're　in　the　know。　There's　no　straight　sport　now。　Lenehan　gets　some　good　ones。　He's　giving　Sceptre　today。　Zinfandel's　the　favourite；　lord　Howard　de　Walden's；　won　at　Epsom。　Morny　Cannon　is　riding　him。　I　could　have　got　seven　to　one　against　Saint　Amant　a　fortnight　before。　
　That　so？　Davy　Byrne　said。。。　
He　went　towards　the　window　and；　taking　up　the　petty　cash　book；　scanned　its　pages。　
　I　could；　faith；　Nosey　Flynn　said　snuffling。　That　was　a　rare　bit　of　horseflesh。　Saint　Frusquin　was　her　sire。　She　won　in　a　thunderstorm；　Rothschild's　filly；　with　wadding　in　her　ears。　Blue　jacket　and　yellow　cap。　Bad　luck　to　big　Ben　Dollard　and　his　John　O'Gaunt。　He　put　me　off　it。　Ay。　
He　drank　resignedly　from　his　tumbler；　running　his　fingers　down　the　flutes。　
　Ay；　he　said；　sighing。　
Mr