Then see him of a Sunday with his little concubine of a wife, and
she wagging her tail up the aisle of the chapel with her patent boots
on her, no less, and her violets, nice as pie, doing the little lady.
Jack Mooney's sister. And the old prostitute of a mother
procuring rooms to street couples. Gob, Jack made him toe the line. Told
him if he didn't patch up the pot, Jesus, he'd kick the shite out of him.
So Terry brought the three pints.
--Here, says Joe, doing the honours. Here, citizen.
--SLAN LEAT, says he.
--Fortune, Joe, says I. Good health, citizen.
Gob, he had his mouth half way down the tumbler already. Want a
small fortune to keep him in drinks.
--Who is the long fellow running for the mayoralty, Alf? says Joe.
--Friend of yours, says Alf.
--Nannan? says Joe. The mimber?
--I won't mention any names, says Alf.
--I thought so, says Joe. I saw him up at that meeting now with William
Field, M. P., the cattle traders.
--Hairy Iopas, says the citizen, that exploded volcano, the darling of all
countries and the idol of his own.
So Joe starts telling the citizen about the foot and mouth disease and
the cattle traders and taking action in the matter and the citizen sending
them all to the rightabout and Bloom coming out with his sheepdip for the
scab and a hoose drench for coughing calves and the guaranteed remedy
for timber tongue.
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