-- I seen a Chinese one time， related the doughty narrator， that had little pills like putty and he put them in the water and they opened， and every pill was something different. One was a ship， another was a house， another was a flower. Cooks rats in your soup， he appetisingly added， the Chinese does.
Possibly perceiving an expression of dubiosity on their faces， the globetrotter went on adhering to his adventures.
-- And I seen a man killed in Trieste by an Italian chap. Knife in his back. Knife like that.
Whilst speaking he produced a dangerous looking clasp knife， quite in keeping with his character， and held it in the striking position.
-- In a knockingshop it was count of a tryon between two smugglers. Fellow hid behind a door， come up behind him. Like that. Prepare to meet your God， says he. Chuck！ It went into his back up to the butt.
His heavy glance， drowsily roaming about， kind of defied their further questions even should they by any chance want to. That's a good bit of steel， repeated he， examining his formidable stiletto.
After which harrowing dénouement sufficient to appal the stoutest he snapped the blade to and stowed the weapon in question away as before in his chamber of horrors， otherwise pocket.
-- They're great for the cold steel， somebody who was evidently quite in the dark said for the benefit of them all. That was why they thought the park murders of the invincibles was done by foreigners on account of them using knives.
At this remark， passed obviously in the spirit of where ignorance is bliss， Mr Bloom and Stephen， each in his own particular way， both instinctively exchanged meaning glances， in a religious silence of the strictly entre nous variety however， towards where Skin-the-Goat， alias the keeper， was drawing spurts of liquid from his boiler affair. His inscrutable face， which was really a work of art， a perfect study in itself， beggaring description， conveyed the impression that he didn't understand one jot of what was going on. Funny very.
There ensued a somewhat lengthy pause. One man was reading by fits and starts a stained by coffee evening journal； another， the card with the natives choza de； another， the seaman's discharge. Mr Bloom， so far as he was personally concerned， was just pondering in pensive mood. He vividly recollected when the occurrence alluded to took place as well as yesterday， some score of years previously， in the days of the land troubles when it took the civilised world by storm， figuratively speaking， early in the eighties， eightyone to be correct， when he was just turned fifteen.
-- Ay， boss， the sailor broke in. Give us back them papers.
The request being complied with， he clawed them up with a scrape.
-- Have you seen the Rock of Gibraltar？ Mr Bloom inquired.
The sailor grimaced， chewing， in a way that might be read as yes， ay， or no.
-- Ah， you've touched there too， Mr Bloom said， Europa point， thinking he had， in the hope that the rover might possibly by some reminiscences but he failed to do so， simply letting spurt a jet of spew into the sawdust， and shook his head with a sort of lazy scorn.
-- What year would that be about？ Mr Bloom interpolated. Can you recall the boats？
Our soi-disant sailor munched heavily awhile， hungrily， before answering.
-- I'm tired of all them rocks in the sea， he said， and boats and ships. Salt junk all the time.
Tired， seemingly， he ceased. His questioner， perceiving that he was not likely to get a great deal of change out of such a wily old customer， fell to woolgathering on the enormous dimensions of the water about the globe. Suffice it to say that， as a casual glance at the map revealed， it covered fully three fourths of it and he fully realised accordingly what it meant， to rule the waves. On more than one occasion - a dozen at the lowest - near the North Bull at Dollymount he had remarked a superannuated old salt， evidently derelict， seated habitually near the not particularly redolent sea on the wall， staring quite obliviously at it and it at him， dreaming of fresh woods and pastures new as someone somewhere sings. And it left him wondering why. Possibly he had tried to find out the secret for himself， floundering up and down the antipodes and all that sort of thing and over and under - well， not exactly under， tempting the fates. And the odds were twenty to nil there was really no secret about it at all. Nevertheless， without going into the minutiae of the business， the eloquent fact remained that the sea was there in all its glory and in the natural course of things somebody or other had to sail on it and fly in the face of providence though it merely went to show how people usually contrived to load that sort of onus on to the other fellow like the hell idea and the lottery and insurance， which were run on identically the same lines so that for that very reason， if no other， lifeboat Sunday was a very laudable institution to which the public at large， no matter where living， inland or seaside，-is the case might be， having it brought home to them like that， should extend its gratitude also to the harbourmasters and coastguard service who had to man the rigging and push off and out amid the elements， whatever the season， when duty called Ireland expects that every man and so on， and sometimes had a terrible time of it in the wintertime not forgetting the Irish lights， Kish and others， liable to capsize at any moment rounding which he once with his daughter had experienced some remarkably choppy， not to say stormy， weather.
-- There was a fellow sailed with me in the Rover， the old seadog， himself a rover， proceeded. Went ashore and took up a soft job as gentleman's valet at six quid a month. Them are his trousers I've on me and he gave me an oilskin and that jackknife. I'm game for that job， shaving and brushup. I hate roaming about. There's my son now， Danny， run off to sea and his mother got him took in a draper's in Cork where he could be drawing easy money.
