Part 106 (2/2)

BLOOM: What is that? A flasher? Searchlight.

_(He stands at Cormack's corner, watching)_

BLOOM: _Aurora borealis_ or a steel foundry? Ah, the brigade, of course.

South side anyhow. Big blaze. Might be his house. Beggar's bush. We're safe. _(He hums cheerfully)_ London's burning, London's burning! On fire, on fire! (_He catches sight of the navvy lurching through the crowd at the farther side of Talbot street_) I'll miss him. Run. Quick.

Better cross here.

_(He darts to cross the road. Urchins shout.)_

THE URCHINS: Mind out, mister! (_Two cyclists, with lighted paper lanterns aswing, swim by him, grazing him, their bells rattling_)

THE BELLS: Haltyaltyaltyall.

BLOOM: _(Halts erect, stung by a spasm)_ Ow!

_(He looks round, darts forward suddenly. Through rising fog a dragon sandstrewer, travelling at caution, slews heavily down upon him, its huge red headlight winking, its trolley hissing on the wire. The motorman bangs his footgong.)_

THE GONG: Bang Bang Bla Bak Blud Bugg Bloo.

_(The brake cracks violently. Bloom, raising a policeman's whitegloved hand, blunders stifflegged out of the track. The motorman, thrown forward, pugnosed, on the guidewheel, yells as he slides past over chains and keys.)_

THE MOTORMAN: Hey, s.h.i.+tbreeches, are you doing the hat trick?

BLOOM: _(Bloom trickleaps to the curbstone and halts again. He brushes a mudflake from his cheek with a parcelled hand.)_ No thoroughfare. Close shave that but cured the st.i.tch. Must take up Sandow's exercises again.

On the hands down. Insure against street accident too. The Providential.

_(He feels his trouser pocket)_ Poor mamma's panacea. Heel easily catch in track or bootlace in a cog. Day the wheel of the black Maria peeled off my shoe at Leonard's corner. Third time is the charm. Shoe trick.

Insolent driver. I ought to report him. Tension makes them nervous.

Might be the fellow balked me this morning with that horsey woman. Same style of beauty. Quick of him all the same. The stiff walk. True word spoken in jest. That awful cramp in Lad lane. Something poisonous I ate. Emblem of luck. Why? Probably lost cattle. Mark of the beast. _(He closes his eyes an instant)_ Bit light in the head. Monthly or effect of the other. Brainfogf.a.g. That tired feeling. Too much for me now. Ow!

(A sinister figure leans on plaited legs against o'beirne's wall, a visage unknown, injected with dark mercury. From under a wideleaved sombrero the figure regards him with evil eye.)

BLOOM: _Buenas noches, senorita Blanca, que calle es esta?_

THE FIGURE: (_Impa.s.sive, raises a signal arm_) Pa.s.sword. _Sraid Mabbot._

BLOOM: Haha. _Merci._ Esperanto. _Slan leath. (He mutters)_ Gaelic league spy, sent by that fireeater.

_(He steps forward. A sackshouldered ragman bars his path. He steps left, ragsackman left.)_

BLOOM: I beg. (_He swerves, sidles, stepaside, slips past and on_.)

BLOOM: Keep to the right, right, right. If there is a signpost planted by the Touring Club at Stepaside who procured that public boon? I who lost my way and contributed to the columns of the _Irish Cyclist_ the letter headed _In darkest Stepaside_. Keep, keep, keep to the right.

Rags and bones at midnight. A fence more likely. First place murderer makes for. Wash off his sins of the world.

_(Jacky Caffrey, hunted by Tommy Caffrey, runs full tilt against Bloom.)_

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