ed to walk on.

The viceregal cavalcade passed, greeted by obsequious policemen, out of
Parkgate.

--I'm sure you have another shilling, Dilly said.

The lacquey banged loudly.

Mr Dedalus amid the din walked off, murmuring to himself with a pursing
mincing mouth gently:

--The little nuns! Nice little things! O, sure they wouldn't do
anything! O, sure they wouldn't really! Is it little sister Monica!

* * * * *

From the sundial towards James's gate walked Mr Kernan, pleased with the
order he had booked for Pulbrook Robertson, boldly along James's street,
past Shackleton's offices. Got round him all right. How do you do, Mr
Crimmins? First rate, sir. I was afraid you might be up in your other
establishment in Pimlico. How are things going? Just keeping alive.
Lovely weather we're having. Yes, indeed. Good for the country. Those
farmers are always grumbling. I'll just take a thimbleful of your best
gin, Mr Crimmins. A small gin, sir. Yes, sir. Terrible affair that
General Slocum explosion. Terrible, terrible! A thousand casualties. And
heartrending scenes. Men trampling down women and children. Most brutal
thing. What do they say was the cause? Spontaneous combustion. Most
scandalous revelation. Not a single lifeboat would float and the
firehose all burst. What I can't understand is how the inspectors ever
allowed a boat like that... Now, you're talking straight, Mr Crimmins.
You know why? Palm oil. Is that a fact? Without a doubt. Well now, look
at that. And America they say is the land of the free. I thought we were
bad here.

I smiled at him. _America,_ I said quietly, just like that. _What is
it? The sweepings of every country including our own. Isn't that true?_
That's a fact.

Graft, my dear sir. Well, of course, where there's money going there's
always someone to pick it up.

Saw him looking at my frockcoat. Dress does it. Nothing like a dressy
appearance. Bowls them over.

--Hello, Simon, Father Cowley said. How are things?

--Hello, Bob, old man, Mr Dedalus answered, stopping.

Mr Kernan halted and preened himself before the sloping mirror of Peter
Kennedy, hairdresser. Stylish coat, beyond a doubt. Scott of Dawson
street. Well worth the half sovereign I gave Neary for it. Never built
under three guineas. Fits me down to the ground. Some Kildare street
club toff had it probably. John Mulligan, the manager of the Hibernian
bank, gave me a very sharp eye yesterday on Carlisle bridge as if he
rem