He put on his glasses and gazed towards the metal bridge an instant.

There he is, by God, he said, arse and pockets.

Ben Dollard’s loose blue cutaway and square hat above large slops crossed the quay in full gait from the metal bridge. He came towards them at an amble, scratching actively behind his coattails.

As he came near Mr Dedalus greeted:

Hold that fellow with the bad trousers.

Hold him now, Ben Dollard said.

Mr Dedalus eyed with cold wandering scorn various points of Ben Dollard’s figure.

Then, turning to Father Cowley with a nod, he muttered sneeringly:

That’s a pretty garment, isn’t