though want must be his master, for
some brutish empire of his. Money I haven't. _(He searches his pockets
vaguely)_ GAVE IT TO SOMEONE.

PRIVATE CARR: Who wants your bleeding money?

STEPHEN: _(Tries to move off)_ Will someone tell me where I am least
likely to meet these necessary evils? _Ca se voit aussi a paris._ Not
that I... But, by Saint Patrick...!

_(The women's heads coalesce. Old Gummy Granny in sugarloaf hat appears
seated on a toadstool, the deathflower of the potato blight on her
breast.)_

STEPHEN: Aha! I know you, gammer! Hamlet, revenge! The old sow that eats
her farrow!

OLD GUMMY GRANNY: _(Rocking to and fro)_ Ireland's sweetheart, the king
of Spain's daughter, alanna. Strangers in my house, bad manners to them!
_(She keens with banshee woe)_ Ochone! Ochone! Silk of the kine! _(She
wails)_ You met with poor old Ireland and how does she stand?

STEPHEN: How do I stand you? The hat trick! Where's the third person of
the Blessed Trinity? Soggarth Aroon? The reverend Carrion Crow.

CISSY CAFFREY: _(Shrill)_ Stop them from fighting!

A ROUGH: Our men retreated.

PRIVATE CARR: _(Tugging at his belt)_ I'll wring the neck of any fucker
says a word against my fucking king.

BLOOM: _(Terrified)_ He said nothing. Not a word. A pure
misunderstanding.

THE CITIZEN: _Erin go bragh!_

_(Major Tweedy and the Citizen exhibit to each other medals,
decorations, trophies of war, wounds. Both salute with fierce
hostility.)_

PRIVATE COMPTON: Go it, Harry. Do him one in the eye. He's a proboer.

STEPHEN: Did I? When?

BLOOM: _(To the redcoats)_ We fought for you in South Africa, Irish
missile troops. Isn't that history? Royal Dublin Fusiliers. Honoured by
our monarch.

THE NAVVY: _(Staggering past)_ O, yes! O God, yes! O, make the kwawr a
krowawr! O! Bo!

_(Casqued halberdiers in armour thrust forward a pentice of gutted
spearpoints. Major Tweedy, moustached like Turko the terrible, in
bearskin cap with hackleplume and accoutrements, with epaulettes, gilt
chevrons and sabretaches, his breast bright with medals, toes the line.
He gives the pilgrim warrior's sign of the knights templars.)_

MAJOR TWEEDY: _(Growls gruffly)_ Rorke's Drift! Up, guards, and at them!
Mahar shalal hashbaz.

PRIVATE CARR: I'll do him in.

PRIVATE COMPTON: _(Waves the crowd back)_ Fair play, here. Make a
bleeding butcher's shop of the bugger.

_(Massed bands blare_ Garryowen _and_ God save the King.)

CISSY CAFFREY: Th