-- Then about! cried the traveller who had not spoken, a lusty trencherman by his aspect. Hast aught to give us?
Mine host bowed again as he made answer:
-- What say you, good masters, to a squab pigeon pasty, some collops of venison, a saddle of veal, widgeon with crisp hog's bacon, a boar's head with pistachios, a bason of jolly custard, a medlar tansy and a flagon of old Rhenish?
-- Gadzooks! cried the last speaker. That likes me well. Pistachios!
-- Aha! cried he of the pleasant countenance. A poor house and a bare larder, quotha! 'Tis a merry rogue.
So in comes Martin asking where was Bloom.
-- Where is he? says Lenehan. Defrauding widows and orphans.
-- Isn't that a fact, says John Wyse, what I was telling the citizen about Bloom and the Sinn Fein?
-- That's so, says Martin. Or so they allege.
-- Who made those allegations? says Alf.
-- I, says Joe. I'm the alligator.
-- And after all, says John Wyse, why can't a jew love his country like the next fellow?
-- Why not? says J. J., when he's quite sure which country it is.
-- Is he a jew or a gentile or a holy Roman or a swaddler or what the hell is he? says Ned. Or who is he? No offence, Crofton.
-- We don't want him, says Crofter the Orangeman or presbyterian.
-- Who is Junius? says J. J.
-- He's a perverted jew, says Martin, from a place in Hungary and it was he drew up all the plans according to the Hungarian system. We know that in the castle.
-- Isn't he a cousin of Bloom the dentist? says Jack Power.
-- Not at all, says Martin. Only namesakes. His name was Virag. The father's name that poisoned himself. He changed it by deed poll, the father did.
-- That's the new Messiah for Ireland! says the citizen. Island of saints and sages!
-- Well, they're still waiting for their redeemer, says Martin. For that matter so are we.
-- Yes, says J. J., and every male that's born they think it may be their Messiah. And every jew is in a tall state of excitement, I believe, till he knows if he's a father or a mother.
-- Expecting every moment will be his next, says Lenehan.
-- O, by God, says Ned, you should have seen Bloom before that son of his that died was born. I met him one day in the south city markets buying a tin of Neave's food six weeks before the wife was delivered.
-- En ventre sa mere, says J. J.
-- Do you call that a man? says the citizen.
-- I wonder did he ever put it out of sight, says Joe.
-- Well, there were two children born anyhow, says Jack Power.
-- And who does he suspect? says the citizen.
Gob, there's many a true word spoken in jest. One of those mixed middlings he is. Lying up in the hotel Pisser was telling me once a month with headache like a totty with her courses. Do you know what I'm telling you? It'd be an act of God to take a hold of a fellow the like of that and throw him in the bloody sea. Justifiable homicide, so it would. Then sloping off with his five quid without putting up a pint of stuff like a man. Give us your blessing. Not as much as would blind your eye.
-- Charity to the neighbour, says Martin. But where is he? We can't wait.
-- A wolf in sheep's clothing, says the citizen. That's what heis. Virag from Hungary! Ahasuerus I call him. Cursed by God.
-- Have you time for a brief libation, Martin? says Ned.
-- Only one, says Martin. We must be quick. J. J. and S.
-- You Jack? Crofton? Three half ones, Terry.
-- Saint Patrick would want to land again at Ballykinlar and convert us, says the citizen, after allowing things like that to contaminate our shores.
-- Well, says Martin, rapping for his glass. God bless all here is my prayer.
-- Amen, says the citizen.
-- And I'm sure he will, says Joe.
