Crawford's journal sitting snug with a covey of wags, likely brangling
fellows, Dixon jun., scholar of my lady of Mercy's, Vin. Lynch, a Scots
fellow, Will. Madden, T. Lenehan, very sad about a racer he fancied and
Stephen D. Leop. Bloom there for a languor he had but was now better, be
having dreamed tonight a strange fancy of his dame Mrs Moll with red
slippers on in a pair of Turkey trunks which is thought by those in ken
to be for a change and Mistress Purefoy there, that got in through
pleading her belly, and now on the stools, poor body, two days past her
term, the midwives sore put to it and can't deliver, she queasy for a
bowl of riceslop that is a shrewd drier up of the insides and her breath
very heavy more than good and should be a bullyboy from the knocks, they
say, but God give her soon issue. 'Tis her ninth chick to live, I hear,
and Lady day bit off her last chick's nails that was then a twelvemonth
and with other three all breastfed that died written out in a fair hand
in the king's bible. Her hub fifty odd and a methodist but takes the
sacrament and is to be seen any fair sabbath with a pair of his boys off
Bullock harbour dapping on the sound with a heavybraked reel or in a punt
he has trailing for flounder and pollock and catches a fine bag, I hear.
In sum an infinite great fall of rain and all refreshed and will much
increase the harvest yet those in ken say after wind and water fire shall
come for a prognostication of Malachi's almanac (and I hear that Mr
Russell has done a prophetical charm of the same gist out of the
Hindustanish for his farmer's gazette) to have three things in all but
this a mere fetch without bottom of reason for old crones and bairns yet
sometimes they are found in the right guess with their queerities no
telling how.

With this came up Lenehan to the feet of the table to say how the letter
was in that night's gazette and he made a show to find it about him (for
he swore with an oath that he had been at pains about it) but on
Stephen's persuasion he gave over the search and was bidden to sit near
by which he did mighty brisk. He was a kind of sport gentleman that went
for a merryandrew or honest pickle and what belonged of women, horseflesh
or hot scandal he had it pat. To tell the truth he was mean in fortunes
and for the most part hankered about the coffeehouses and low taverns
with crimps, ostlers, bookies, Paul's men, runners, flatcaps,
waistcoateers, ladies of the bagnio and other rogues of the game or with
a chanceable catchpole or a tipstaff often at nights till broad day of
whom he picked up between his sackpossets much loose gossip. He took his
ordinary at a boilingcook's and if he had but gotten into him a mess of
broken victuals or a platter of tripes with a bare tester in his purse he
could always bring himself off with his tongue, some randy quip he had
from a punk or whatnot that every mother's son of them would burst their
sides. The other, Costello that is, hearing this talk asked was it poetry
or a tale. Faith, no, he says, Frank (that was his name), 'tis all about
Kerry cows that are to be butchered along of the plague. But they can go
hang, says he with a wink, for me with their bully beef, a pox on it.
There's as good fish in this tin as ever came out of it and very friendly
he offered to take of some salty sprats that stood by which he had eyed
wishly in the meantime and found the place which was indeed the chief
design of his embassy as he was sharpset. MORT AUX VACHES, says Frank
then in the French language that had been indentured to a brandyshipper
that has a winelodge in Bordeaux and he spoke French like a gentleman
too. From a child this Frank had been a donought that his father, a
headborough, who could ill keep him to school to learn his letters and
the use of the globes, matriculated at the university to study the
mechanics but he took the bit between his teeth like a raw colt and was
more familiar with the justiciary and the parish beadle than with his
volumes. One time he would be a playactor, then a sutler or a welsher,
then nought would keep him from the bearpit and the cocking main, then he
was for the ocean sea or to hoof it on the roads with the romany folk,
kidnapping a squire's heir by favour of moonlight or fecking maids' linen
or choking chicken behind a hedge. He had been off as many times as a cat
has lives and back again with naked pockets as many more to his father
the headborough who shed a pint of tears as often as he saw him. What,
says Mr Leopold with his hands across, that was earnest to know the drift
of it, will they slaughter all? I protest I saw them but this day morning
going to the Liverpool boats, says he. I can scarce believe 'tis so bad,
says he. And he had experience of the like brood beasts and of springers,
greasy hoggets and wether wool, having been some years before actuary for
Mr Joseph Cuffe, a worthy salesmaster that drove his trade for live stock
and meadow auctions hard by Mr Gavin Low's yard in Prussia street. I
question with you there, says he. More like 'tis the hoose or the timber
tongue. Mr Stephen, a little moved but very handsomely told him no such
matter and that he had dispatches from the emperor's chief tailtickler
thanking him for the hospitality, that was sending over Doctor
Rinderpest, the bestquoted cowcatcher in all Muscovy, with a bolus or two
of physic to take the bull by the horns. Come, come, says Mr Vincent,
plain dealing. He'll find himself on the horns of a dilemma if he meddles
with a bull that's Irish, says he. Irish by name and irish by nature,
says Mr Stephen, and he sent the ale purling about, an Irish bull in an
English chinashop. I conceive you, says Mr Dixon. It is that same bull
that was sent to our island by farmer Nicholas, the bravest cattlebreeder
of them all, with an emerald ring in his nose. True for you, says Mr
Vincent cross the table, and a bullseye into the bargain, says he, and a
plumper and a portlier bull, says he, never shit on shamrock. He had
horns galore, a coat of cloth of gold and a sweet smoky breath coming out
of his nostrils so that the women of our island, leaving doughballs and
rollingpins, followed after him hanging his bulliness in daisychains.
What for that, says Mr Dixon, but before he came over farmer Nicholas
that was a eunuch had him properly gelded by a college of doctors who
were no better off than himself. So be off now, says he, and do all my
cousin german the lord Harry tells you and take a farmer's blessing, and
with that he slapped his posteriors very soundly. But the slap and the
blessing stood him friend, says Mr Vincent, for to make up he taught him
a trick worth two of the other so that maid, wife, abbess and widow to
this day affirm that they would rather any time of the month whisper in
his ear in the dark of a cowhouse or get a lick on the nape from his long
holy tongue than lie with the finest strapping young ravisher in the four
fields of all Ireland. Another then put in his word: And they dressed


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