cabs. And round he goes to Bob Doran that
was standing Alf a half one sucking up for what he could get. So of
course Bob Doran starts doing the bloody fool with him:

--Give us the paw! Give the paw, doggy! Good old doggy! Give the paw
here! Give us the paw!

Arrah, bloody end to the paw he'd paw and Alf trying to keep him from
tumbling off the bloody stool atop of the bloody old dog and he talking
all kinds of drivel about training by kindness and thoroughbred dog and
intelligent dog: give you the bloody pip. Then he starts scraping a few
bits of old biscuit out of the bottom of a Jacobs' tin he told Terry to
bring. Gob, he golloped it down like old boots and his tongue hanging
out of him a yard long for more. Near ate the tin and all, hungry bloody
mongrel.

And the citizen and Bloom having an argument about the point, the
brothers Sheares and Wolfe Tone beyond on Arbour Hill and Robert Emmet
and die for your country, the Tommy Moore touch about Sara Curran and
she's far from the land. And Bloom, of course, with his knockmedown
cigar putting on swank with his lardy face. Phenomenon! The fat heap he
married is a nice old phenomenon with a back on her like a ballalley.
Time they were stopping up in the _City Arms_ pisser Burke told me there
was an old one there with a cracked loodheramaun of a nephew and Bloom
trying to get the soft side of her doing the mollycoddle playing bezique
to come in for a bit of the wampum in her will and not eating meat of a
Friday because the old one was always thumping her craw and taking the
lout out for a walk. And one time he led him the rounds of Dublin and,
by the holy farmer, he never cried crack till he brought him home as
drunk as a boiled owl and he said he did it to teach him the evils of
alcohol and by herrings, if the three women didn't near roast him, it's
a queer story, the old one, Bloom's wife and Mrs O'Dowd that kept the
hotel. Jesus, I had to laugh at pisser Burke taking them off chewing
the fat. And Bloom with his _but don't you see?_ and _but on the other
hand_. And sure, more be token, the lout I'm told was in Power's after,
the blender's, round in Cope street going home footless in a cab five
times in the week after drinking his way through all the samples in the
bloody establishment. Phenomenon!

--The memory of the dead, says the citizen taking up his pintglass and
glaring at Bloom.

--Ay, ay, says Joe.

--You don't grasp my point, says Bloom. What I mean is..