—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,
