THE GONG: Bang Bang Bla Bak Blud Bugg Bloo.
(THE BRAKE CRACKS VIOLENTLY. BLOOM, RAISING A POLICEMAN'S WHITEGLOVED
HAND, BLUNDERS STIFFLEGGED OUT OF THE TRACK. THE MOTORMAN, THROWN
FORWARD, PUGNOSED, ON THE GUIDEWHEEL, YELLS AS HE SLIDES PAST OVER CHAINS
AND KEYS.)
THE MOTORMAN: Hey, shitbreeches, are you doing the hat trick?
BLOOM: (BLOOM TRICKLEAPS TO THE CURBSTONE AND HALTS AGAIN. HE BRUSHES A
MUDFLAKE FROM HIS CHEEK WITH A PARCELLED HAND.) No thoroughfare. Close
shave that but cured the stitch. Must take up Sandow's exercises again.
On the hands down. Insure against street accident too. The Providential.
(HE FEELS HIS TROUSER POCKET) Poor mamma's panacea. Heel easily catch in
track or bootlace in a cog. Day the wheel of the black Maria peeled off
my shoe at Leonard's corner. Third time is the charm. Shoe trick.
Insolent driver. I ought to report him. Tension makes them nervous. Might
be the fellow balked me this morning with that horsey woman. Same style
of beauty. Quick of him all the same. The stiff walk. True word spoken in
jest. That awful cramp in Lad lane. Something poisonous I ate. Emblem of
luck. Why? Probably lost cattle. Mark of the beast. (HE CLOSES HIS EYES
AN INSTANT) Bit light in the head. Monthly or effect of the other.
Brainfogfag. That tired feeling. Too much for me now. Ow!
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