Peggy Griffin. He wrote to me that he was miserable. I'll tell my
brother, the Bective rugger fullback, on you, heartless flirt.

BLOOM: (BEHIND HIS HAND) She's drunk. The woman is inebriated. (HE
MURMURS VAGUELY THE PASS OF EPHRAIM) Shitbroleeth.

SECOND WATCH: (TEARS IN HIS EYES, TO BLOOM) You ought to be thoroughly
well ashamed of yourself.

BLOOM: Gentlemen of the jury, let me explain. A pure mare's nest. I am a
man misunderstood. I am being made a scapegoat of. I am a respectable
married man, without a stain on my character. I live in Eccles street. My
wife, I am the daughter of a most distinguished commander, a gallant
upstanding gentleman, what do you call him, Majorgeneral Brian Tweedy,
one of Britain's fighting men who helped to win our battles. Got his
majority for the heroic defence of Rorke's Drift.

FIRST WATCH: Regiment.

BLOOM: (TURNS TO THE GALLERY) The royal Dublins, boys, the salt of the
earth, known the world over. I think I see some old comrades in arms up
there among you. The R. D. F., with our own Metropolitan police,
guardians of our homes, the pluckiest lads and the finest body of men, as
physique, in the service of our sovereign.

A VOICE: Turncoat! Up the Boers! Who booed Joe Chamberlain?

BLOOM: (HIS HAND ON THE SHOULDER OF THE FIRST WATCH) My old dad too was a
J. P. I'm as staunch a Britisher as you are, sir. I fought with the
colours for king and country in the absentminded war under general Gough
in the park and was disabled at Spion Kop and Bloemfontein, was mentioned
in dispatches. I did all a white man could. (WITH QUIET FEELING) Jim
Bludso. Hold her nozzle again the bank.

FIRST WATCH: Profession or trade.

BLOOM: Well, I follow a literary occupation, author-journalist. In fact
we are just bringing out a collection of prize stories of which I am the
inventor, something that is an entirely new departure. I am connected
with the British and Irish press. If you ring up ...

(MYLES CRAWFORD STRIDES OUT JERKILY, A QUILL BETWEEN HIS TEETH. HIS
SCARLET BEAK BLAZES WITHIN THE AUREOLE OF HIS STRAW HAT. HE DANGLES A
HANK OF SPANISH ONIONS IN ONE HAND AND HOLDS WITH THE OTHER HAND A
TELEPHONE RECEIVER NOZZLE TO HIS EAR.)

MYLES CRAWFORD: (HIS COCK'S WATTLES WAGGING) Hello, seventyseven
eightfour. Hello. FREEMAN'S URINAL and WEEKLY ARSEWIPE here. Paralyse
Europe. You which? Bluebags? Who writes? Is it Bloom?

(MR PHILIP BEAUFOY, PALEFACED, STANDS IN THE WITNESSBOX, IN ACCURATE
MORNING DRESS, OUTBREAST POCKET WITH PEAK OF HANDKERCHIEF SHOWING,
CREASED LAVENDER TROUSERS AND PATENT BOOTS. HE CARRIES A LARGE PORTFOLIO
LABELLED Matcham's Masterstrokes.)

BEAUFOY: (DRAWLS) No, you aren't. Not by a long shot if I know it. I
don't see it that's all. No born gentleman, no-one with the most
rudimentary promptings of a gentleman would stoop to such particularly
loathsome conduct. One of those, my lord. A plagiarist. A soapy sneak
masquerading as a litterateur. It's perfectly obvious that with the most
inherent baseness he has cribbed some of my bestselling copy, really
gorgeous stuff, a perfect gem, the love passages in which are beneath
suspicion. The Beaufoy books of love and great possessions, with which
your lordship is doubtless familiar, are a household word throughout the
kingdom.

BLOOM: (MURMURS WITH HANGDOG MEEKNESS GLUM) That bit about the laughing
witch hand in hand I take exception to, if I may ...

BEAUFOY: (HIS LIP UPCURLED, SMILES SUPERCILIOUSLY ON THE COURT) You funny
ass, you! You're too beastly awfully weird for words! I don't think you
need over excessively disincommodate yourself in that regard. My literary
agent Mr J. B. Pinker is in attendance. I presume, my lord, we shall
receive the usual witnesses' fees, shan't we? We are considerably out of
pocket over this bally pressman johnny, this jackdaw of Rheims, who has
not even been to a university.

BLOOM: (INDISTINCTLY) University of life. Bad art.

BEAUFOY: (SHOUTS) It's a damnably foul lie, showing the moral rottenness
of the man! (HE EXTENDS HIS PORTFOLIO) We have here damning evidence, the
CORPUS DELICTI, my lord, a specimen of my maturer work disfigured by the
hallmark of the beast.

A VOICE FROM THE GALLERY:

Moses, Moses, king of the jews,
Wiped his arse in the Daily News.

BLOOM: (BRAVELY) Overdrawn.

BEAUFOY: You low cad! You ought to be ducked in the horsepond, you
rotter! (TO THE COURT) Why, look at the man's private life! Leading a
quadruple existence! Street angel and house devil. Not fit to be
mentioned in mixed society! The archconspirator of the age!

BLOOM: (TO THE COURT) And he, a bachelor, how ...

FIRST WATCH: The King versus Bloom. Call the woman Driscoll.



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