He tossed the tissues on to the table.

Screams of newsboys barefoot in the hall rushed near and the door
was flung open.

--Hush, Lenehan said. I hear feetstoops.

Professor MacHugh strode across the room and seized the cringing
urchin by the collar as the others scampered out of the hall and down the
steps. The tissues rustled up in the draught, floated softly in the air
blue scrawls and under the table came to earth.

--It wasn't me, sir. It was the big fellow shoved me, sir.

--Throw him out and shut the door, the editor said. There's a hurricane
blowing.

Lenehan began to paw the tissues up from the floor, grunting as he
stooped twice.

--Waiting for the racing special, sir, the newsboy said. It was Pat
Farrell shoved me, sir.

He pointed to two faces peering in round the doorframe.

--Him, sir.

--Out of this with you, professor MacHugh said gruffly.

He hustled the boy out and banged the door to.

J. J. O'Molloy turned the files crackingly over, murmuring, seeking:

--Continued on page six, column four.

--Yes, EVENING TELEGRAPH here, Mr Bloom phoned from the inner office. Is
the boss ...? Yes, TELEGRAPH ... To where? Aha! Which auction rooms? ...
Aha! I see ... Right. I'll catch him.


A COLLISION ENSUES


The bell whirred again as he rang off. He came in quickly and
bumped against Lenehan who was struggling up with the second tissue.

--PARDON, MONSIEUR, Lenehan said, clutching him for an instant and making
a grimace.

--My fault, Mr Bloom said, suffering his grip. Are you hurt? I'm in a
hurry.

--Knee, Lenehan said.

He made a comic face and whined, rubbing his knee:

--The accumulation of the ANNO DOMINI.

--Sorry, Mr Bloom said.

He went to the door and, holding it ajar, paused. J. J. O'Molloy
slapped the heavy pages over. The noise of two shrill voices, a
mouthorgan, echoed in the bare hallway from the newsboys squatted on the
doorsteps:


--WE ARE THE BOYS OF WEXFORD
WHO FOUGHT WITH HEART AND HAND.


EXIT BLOOM


--I'm just running round to Bachelor's walk, Mr Bloom said, about this ad
of Keyes's. Want to fix it up. They tell me he's round there in Dillon's.

He looked indecisively for a moment at their faces. The editor who,
leaning against the mantelshelf, had propped his head on his hand,
suddenly stretched forth an arm amply.

--Begone! he said. The world is before you.

--Back in no time, Mr Bloom said, hurrying out.

J. J. O'Molloy took the tissues from Lenehan's hand and read them,
blowing them apart gently, without comment.

--He'll get that advertisement, the professor said, staring through his
blackrimmed spectacles over the crossblind. Look at the young scamps after
him.

--Show. Where? Lenehan cried, running to the window.


A STREET CORTEGE


Both smiled over the crossblind at the file of capering newsboys in Mr
Bloom's wake, the last zigzagging white on the breeze a mocking kite, a
tail of white bowknots.


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