Mr Bloom smiled O rocks at two windows of the ballastoffice. She's
right after all. Only big words for ordinary things on account of the
sound. She's not exactly witty. Can be rude too. Blurt out what I was
thinking. Still, I don't know. She used to say Ben Dollard had a base
barreltone voice. He has legs like barrels and you'd think he was singing
into a barrel. Now, isn't that wit. They used to call him big Ben. Not
half as witty as calling him base barreltone. Appetite like an albatross.
Get outside of a baron of beef. Powerful man he was at stowing away number
one Bass. Barrel of Bass. See? It all works out.


A procession of whitesmocked sandwichmen marched slowly towards
him along the gutter, scarlet sashes across their boards. Bargains. Like
that priest they are this morning: we have sinned: we have suffered. He
read the scarlet letters on their five tall white hats: H. E. L. Y. S.
Wisdom Hely's. Y lagging behind drew a chunk of bread from under his
foreboard, crammed it into his mouth and munched as he walked. Our staple
food. Three bob a day, walking along the gutters, street after street.
Just keep skin and bone together, bread and skilly. They are not Boyl:
no, M Glade's men. Doesn't bring in any business either. I suggested
to him about a transparent showcart with two smart girls sitting
inside writing letters, copybooks, envelopes, blottingpaper. I bet that
would have caught on. Smart girls writing something catch the eye at once.
Everyone dying to know what she's writing. Get twenty of them round you
if you stare at nothing. Have a finger in the pie. Women too. Curiosity.
Pillar of salt. Wouldn't have it of course because he didn't think
of it himself first. Or the inkbottle I suggested with a false stain
of black celluloid. His ideas for ads like Plumtree's potted under
the obituaries, cold meat department. You can't lick 'em. What? Our
envelopes. Hello, Jones, where are you going? Can't stop, Robinson,