-- He knew what money was， Mr Deasy said. He made money. A poet but an Englishman too. Do you know what is the pride of the English？ Do you know what is the proudest word you will ever hear from an Englishman's mouth？
The seas' ruler. His seacold eyes looked on the empty bay： history is to blame： on me and on my words， unhating.
-- That on his empire， Stephen said， the sun never sets.
-- Ba！ Mr Deasy cried. That's not English. A French Celt said that. He tapped his savingsbox against his thumbnail.
-- I will tell you， he said solemnly， what is his proudest boast. I paid my way.
Good man， good man.
-- I paid my way. I never borrowed a shilling in my life. Can you feel that？ I owe nothing. Can you？
Mulligan， nine pounds， three pairs of socks， one pair brogues， ties. Curran， ten guineas. McCann， one guinea. Fred Ryan， two shillings. Temple， two lunches. Russell， one guinea， Cousins， ten shillings， Bob Reynolds， half a guinea， Kohler， three guineas， Mrs McKernan， five weeks' board. The lump I have is useless.
-- For the moment， no， Stephen answered.
Mr Deasy laughed with rich delight， putting back his savingsbox.
-- I knew you couldn't， he said joyously. But one day you must feel it. We are a generous people but we must also be just.
-- I fear those big words， Stephen said， which make us so unhappy.
Mr Deasy stared sternly for some moments over the mantelpiece at the shapely bulk of a man in tartan fillibegs： Albert Edward， Prince of Wales.
-- You think me an old fogey and an old tory， his thoughtful voice said. I saw three generations since O'Connell's time. I remember the famine. Do you know that the orange lodges agitated for repeal of the union twenty years before O'Connell did or before the prelates of your communion denounced him as a demagogue？ You fenians forget some things.
Glorious， pious and immortal memory. The lodge of Diamond in Armagh the splendid behung with corpses of papishes. Hoarse， masked and armed， the planters' covenant. The black north and true blue bible. Croppies lie down.
Stephen sketched a brief gesture.
-- I have rebel blood in me too， Mr Deasy said. On the spindle side. But I am descended from sir John Blackwood who voted for the union. We are all Irish， all kings' sons.
-- Alas， Stephen said.
-- Per vias rectas， Mr Deasy said firmly， was his motto. He voted for it and put on his topboots to ride to Dublin from the Ards of Down to do so.
Lal the ral the ra
The rocky road to Dublin.
A gruff squire on horseback with shiny topboots. Soft day， sir John. Soft day， your honour... Day... Day... Two topboots jog dangling on to Dublin. Lal the ral the ra， lal the ral the raddy.
-- That reminds me， Mr Deasy said. You can do me a favour， Mr Dedalus， with some of your literary friends： I have a letter here for the press. Sit down a moment. I have just to copy the end.
He went to the desk near the window， pulled in his chair twice and read off some words from the sheet on the drum of his typewriter.
-- Sit down. Excuse me， he said over his shoulder， the dictates of common sense. Just a moment.
He peered from under his shaggy brows at the manu by his elbow and， muttering， began to prod the stiff buttons of the keyboard slowly， some times blowing as he screwed up the drum to erase an error.
Stephen seated himself noiselessly before the princely presence. Framed around the walls images of vanished horses stood in homage， their meek heads poised in air： lord Hastings' Repulse， the duke of Westminster's Shotover， the duke of Beaufort's Ceylon， prix de Paris， 1866. Elfin riders sat them， watchful of a sign. He saw their speeds， backing King's colours， and shouted with the shouts of vanished crowds.
-- Full stop， Mr Deasy bade his keys. But prompt ventilation of this important question...
Where Cranly led me to get rich quick， hunting his winners among the mudsplashed brakes， amid the bawls of bookies on their pitches and reek of the canteen， over the motley slush. Even money Fair Rebel： ten to one the field. Dicers and thimbleriggers we hurried by after the hoofs， the vying caps and jackets and past the meatfaced woman， a butcher's dame， nuzzling thirstily her clove of orange.
Shouts rang shrill from the boys' playfield and a whirring whistle.
Again： a goal. I am among them， among their battling bodies in a medley， the joust of life. You mean that knockkneed mother's darling who seems to be slightly crawsick？ Jousts. Time shocked rebounds， shock by shock. Jousts， slush and uproar of battles， the frozen deathspew of the slain， a shout of spear spikes baited with men's bloodied guts.
-- Now then， Mr Deasy said， rising.
He came to the table， pinning together his sheets. Stephen stood up.
-- I have put the matter into a nutshell， Mr Deasy said. It's about the foot and mouth disease. Just look through it. There can be no two opinions on the matter.
May I trespass on your valuable space. That doctrine of laissez faire which so often in our history. Our cattle trade. The way of all our old industries. Liverpool ring which jockeyed the Galway harbour scheme. European conflagration. Grain supplies through the narrow waters of the channel. The pluterperfect imperturbability of the department of agriculture. Pardoned a classical allusion. Cassandra. By a woman who was no better than she should be. To come to the point at issue.
-- I don't mince words， do I？ Mr Deasy asked as Stephen read on.
Foot and mouth disease. Known as Koch's preparation. Serum and virus. Percentage of salted horses. Rinderpest. Emperor's horses at Mürzsteg， lower Austria. Veterinary surgeons. Mr Henry Blackwood Price. Courteous offer a fair trial， Dictates of common sense. Allimportant question. In every sense of the word take the bull by the horns. Thanking you for the hospitality of your columns.
