bookstore. _Why I left the church
of Rome? Birds' Nest._ Women run him. They say they used to give pauper
children soup to change to protestants in the time of the potato blight.
Society over the way papa went to for the conversion of poor jews. Same
bait. Why we left the church of Rome.

A blind stripling stood tapping the curbstone with his slender cane. No
tram in sight. Wants to cross.

--Do you want to cross? Mr Bloom asked.

The blind stripling did not answer. His wallface frowned weakly. He
moved his head uncertainly.

--You're in Dawson street, Mr Bloom said. Molesworth street is opposite.
Do you want to cross? There's nothing in the way.

The cane moved out trembling to the left. Mr Bloom's eye followed its
line and saw again the dyeworks' van drawn up before Drago's. Where I
saw his brillantined hair just when I was. Horse drooping. Driver in
John Long's. Slaking his drouth.

--There's a van there, Mr Bloom said, but it's not moving. I'll see you
across. Do you want to go to Molesworth street?

--Yes, the stripling answered. South Frederick street.

--Come, Mr Bloom said.

He touched the thin elbow gently: then took the limp seeing hand to
guide it forward.

Say something to him. Better not do the condescending. They mistrust
what you tell them. Pass a common remark.

--The rain kept off.

No answer.

Stains on his coat. Slobbers his food, I suppose. Tastes all different
for him. Have to be spoonfed first. Like a child's hand, his hand. Like
Milly's was. Sensitive. Sizing me up I daresay from my hand. Wonder
if he has a name. Van. Keep his cane clear of the horse's legs: tired
drudge get his doze. That's right. Clear. Behind a bull: in front of a
horse.

--Thanks, sir.

Knows I'm a man. Voice.

--Right now? First turn to the left.

The blind stripling tapped the curbstone and went on his way, drawing
his cane back, feeling again.

Mr Bloom walked behind the eyeless feet, a flatcut suit of herringbone
tweed. Poor young fellow! How on earth did he know that van was there?
Must have felt it. See things in their forehead perhaps: kind of sense
of volume. Weight or size of it, something blacker than the dark. Wonder
would he feel it if something was removed. Feel a gap. Queer idea of
Dublin he must have, tapping his way round by the stones. Could he walk
in a beeline if he hadn't that cane? Bloodless pious face like a fellow
going in to be a priest.

Penrose! That was that chap's name.