He looked about him round his loud unanswering machines.

Monks, sir? a voice asked from the castingbox.

Ay. Where’s Monks?

Monks!

Mr Bloom took up his cutting. Time to get out.

Then I’ll get the design, Mr Nannetti, he said, and you’ll give it a good place I know.

Monks!

Yes, sir.

Three months’ renewal. Want to get some wind off my chest first. Try it anyhow. Rub in August: good idea: horseshow month. Ballsbridge. Tourists over for the show.

A DAYFATHER

He walked on through the caseroom passing an old man, bowed, spectacled, aproned. Old Monks, the dayfather. Queer lot of stuff he must have put through his hands in his time: obituary notices, pubs’