Bloom, says he. He’s on point duty up and down there for the last ten minutes.

And, begob, I saw his physog do a peep in and then slidder off again.

Little Alf was knocked bawways. Faith, he was.

Good Christ! says he. I could have sworn it was him.

And says Bob Doran, with the hat on the back of his poll, lowest blackguard in Dublin when he’s under the influence:

Who said Christ is good?

I beg your parsnips, says Alf.

Is that a good Christ, says Bob Doran, to take away poor little Willy Dignam?

Ah, well, says Alf, trying to pass it off. He’s over all his troubles.