Ulysses by James Joyce Chapter 3 Page 8

Yes, sir?

Malt for Richie and Stephen, tell mother. Where is she?

Bathing Crissie, sir.

Papa’s little bedpal. Lump of love.

No, uncle Richie...

Call me Richie. Damn your lithia water. It lowers. Whusky!

Uncle Richie, really...

Sit down or by the law Harry I’ll knock you down.

Walter squints vainly for a chair.

He has nothing to sit down on, sir.

He has nowhere to put it, you mug. Bring in our chippendale chair. Would you like a bite of something? None of your damned lawdeedaw airs here. The rich of a rasher fried with a herring?