--What's wrong now?
A divided drove of branded cattle passed the windows, lowing,
slouching by on padded hoofs, whisking their tails slowly on their clotted
bony croups. Outside them and through them ran raddled sheep bleating
their fear.
--Emigrants, Mr Power said.
--Huuuh! the drover's voice cried, his switch sounding on their flanks.
Huuuh! out of that!
Thursday, of course. Tomorrow is killing day. Springers. Cuffe sold
them about twentyseven quid each. For Liverpool probably. Roastbeef for
old England. They buy up all the juicy ones. And then the fifth quarter
lost: all that raw stuff, hide, hair, horns. Comes to a big thing in a
year. Dead meat trade. Byproducts of the slaughterhouses for tanneries,
soap, margarine. Wonder if that dodge works now getting dicky meat off the
train at Clonsilla.
The carriage moved on through the drove.
--I can't make out why the corporation doesn't run a tramline from the
parkgate to the quays, Mr Bloom said. All those animals could be taken in
trucks down to the boats.
--Instead of blocking up the thoroughfare, Martin Cunningham said.
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