At this intelligence， in which he seemingly evinced little interest， Mr Bloom gazed abstractedly for the space of a half a second or so in the direction of a bucket dredger， rejoicing in the farfamed name of Eblana， moored alongside Customhouse Quay and quite possibly Out of repair， whereupon he observed evasively：
-- Everybody gets their own ration of luck， they say. Now you mention it his face was familiar to me. But leaving that for the moment， how much did you part with， he queried， if I am not too inquisitive？
-- Half-a-crown， Stephen responded. I daresay he needs it to sleep somewhere.
-- Needs， Mr Bloom ejaculated， professing not the least surprise at the intelligence， I can quite credit the assertion and I guarantee he invariably does. Everyone according to his needs and everyone according to his deeds. But talking about things in general， where， added he with a smile， will you sleep yourself？ Walking to Sandycove is Out of the question and， even supposing you did， you won't get in after what occurred at Westland Row station. Simply fag out there for nothing. I don't mean to presume to dictate to you in the slightest degree but why did you leave your father's house？
-- To seek misfortune， was Stephen's answer.
-- I met your respected father on a recent occasion， Mr Bloom diplomatically returned. Today， in fact， or， to be strictly accurate， on yesterday. Where does he live at present？ I gathered in the course of conversation that he had moved.
-- I believe he is in Dublin somewhere， Stephen answered unconcernedly. Why？
-- A gifted man， Mr Bloom said of Mr Dedalus senior， in more respects than one and a born raconteur if ever there was one. He takes great pride， quite legitimately， Out of you. You could go back， perhaps， he hazarded， still thinking of the very unpleasant scene at Westland Row terminus when it was perfectly evident that the other two， Mulligan， that is， and that English tourist friend of his， who eventually euchred their third companion， were patently trying， as if the whole bally station belonged to them， to give Stephen the slip in the confusion.
There was no response forthcoming to the suggestion， however， such as it was， Stephen's mind's eye being too busily engaged in repicturing his family hearth the last time he saw it， with his sister， Dilly， sitting by the ingle， her hair hanging down， waiting for some weak Trinidad shell cocoa that was in the sootcoated kettle to be done so that she and he could drink it with the oatmeal water for milk after the Friday herrings they had eaten at two a penny， with an egg apiece for Maggy， Boody and Katey， the cat meanwhile under the mangle devouring a mess of eggshells and charred fish heads and bones on a square of brown paper in accordance with the third precept of the church to fast and abstain on the days commanded， it being quarter tense or， if not， ember days or something like that.
-- No， Mr Bloom repeated again， I wouldn't personally repose much trust in that boon companion of yours who contributes the humorous element， Dr Mulligan， as a guide， philosopher， and friend， if I were in your shoes. He knows which side his bread is buttered on though in all probability he never realised what it is to be without regular meals. Of course you didn't notice as much as I did but it wouldn't occasion me the least surprise to learn that a pinch of tobacco or some narcotic was put in your drink for some ulterior object.
He understood， however， from all he heard， that Dr Mulligan was a versatile allround man， by no means confined to medicine only， who was rapidly coming to the fore in his line and， if the report was verified， bade fair to enjoy a flourishing practice in the not too distant future as a tony medical practitioner drawing a handsome fee for his services in addition to which professional status his rescue of that man from certain drowning by artificial respiration and what they call first aid at Skerries， or Malahide was it？ was， he was bound to admit， an exceedingly plucky deed which he could not too highly praise， so that frankly he was utterly at a loss to fathom what earthly reason could be at the back of it except he put it down to sheer cussedness or jealousy， pure and simple.
-- Except it simply amounts to one thing and he is what they call picking your brains， he ventured to throw out.
The guarded glance of half solicitude， half curiosity， augmented by friendliness， which he gave at Stephen's at present morose expression of features did not throw a flood of light， none at all in fact， on the problem as to whether he had let himself be badly bamboozled， to judge by two or three low spirited remarks he let drop， or， the other way about， saw through the affair， and， for some reason or other best known to himself， allowed matters to more or less... Grinding poverty did have that effect and he more than conjectured that， high educational abilities though he possessed， he experienced no little difficulty in making both ends meet.
Adjacent to the men's public urinal he perceived an icecream car round which a group of presumably Italians in heated altercation were getting rid of voluble expressions in their vivacious language in a particularly animated way， there being some little differences between the parties.
-- Putana madonna， che ci dia i quattrini！ Ho ragione？ Culo rotto！
-- Intendiamoci. Mezzo sovrano più
-- Dice lui， pero.
-- Farabutto！ Mortacci sui！
