After traipsing
about in the fog they found the grave sure enough. One of the drunks spelt
out the name: Terence Mulcahy. The other drunk was blinking up at a statue
of Our Saviour the widow had got put up.
The caretaker blinked up at one of the sepulchres they passed. He
resumed:
--And, after blinking up at the sacred figure, NOT A BLOODY BIT LIKE THE
MAN, says he. THAT'S NOT MULCAHY, says he, WHOEVER DONE IT.
Rewarded by smiles he fell back and spoke with Corny Kelleher, accepting
the dockets given him, turning them over and scanning them as he walked.
--That's all done with a purpose, Martin Cunningham explained to Hynes.
--I know, Hynes said. I know that.
--To cheer a fellow up, Martin Cunningham said. It's pure goodheartedness:
damn the thing else.
Mr Bloom admired the caretaker's prosperous bulk. All want to be on
good terms with him. Decent fellow, John O'Connell, real good sort. Keys:
like Keyes's ad: no fear of anyone getting out. No passout checks. HABEAS
CORPUS. I must see about that ad after the funeral. Did I write
Ballsbridge on the envelope I took to cover when she disturbed me writing
to Martha? Hope it's not chucked in the dead letter office.
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