tt's jaw. The redcoat ducked but the Dubliner lifted him with a
left hook, the body punch being a fine one. The men came to handigrips.
Myler quickly became busy and got his man under, the bout ending with
the bulkier man on the ropes, Myler punishing him. The Englishman, whose
right eye was nearly closed, took his corner where he was liberally
drenched with water and when the bell went came on gamey and brimful of
pluck, confident of knocking out the fistic Eblanite in jigtime. It was
a fight to a finish and the best man for it. The two fought like tigers
and excitement ran fever high. The referee twice cautioned Pucking Percy
for holding but the pet was tricky and his footwork a treat to watch.
After a brisk exchange of courtesies during which a smart upper cut of
the military man brought blood freely from his opponent's mouth the
lamb suddenly waded in all over his man and landed a terrific left to
Battling Bennett's stomach, flooring him flat. It was a knockout clean
and clever. Amid tense expectation the Portobello bruiser was being
counted out when Bennett's second Ole Pfotts Wettstein threw in the
towel and the Santry boy was declared victor to the frenzied cheers of
the public who broke through the ringropes and fairly mobbed him with
delight.

--He knows which side his bread is buttered, says Alf. I hear he's
running a concert tour now up in the north.

--He is, says Joe. Isn't he?

--Who? says Bloom. Ah, yes. That's quite true. Yes, a kind of summer
tour, you see. Just a holiday.

--Mrs B. is the bright particular star, isn't she? says Joe.

--My wife? says Bloom. She's singing, yes. I think it will be a success
too.

He's an excellent man to organise. Excellent.

Hoho begob says I to myself says I. That explains the milk in the
cocoanut and absence of hair on the animal's chest. Blazes doing the
tootle on the flute. Concert tour. Dirty Dan the dodger's son off Island
bridge that sold the same horses twice over to the government to fight
the Boers. Old Whatwhat. I called about the poor and water rate, Mr
Boylan. You what? The water rate, Mr Boylan. You whatwhat? That's the
bucko that'll organise her, take my tip. 'Twixt me and you Caddareesh.

Pride of Calpe's rocky mount, the ravenhaired daughter of Tweedy. There
grew she to peerless beauty where loquat and almond scent the air. The
gardens of Alameda knew her step: the garths of olives knew and bowed.
The chaste spouse of Leopold is she: Marion of t