Nobody volunteering a statement he winked, saying:
--Glass. That boggles 'em. Glass.
Mr Bloom, without evincing surprise, unostentatiously turned over the
card to peruse the partially obliterated address and postmark. It ran as
follows: TARJETA POSTAL, SENOR A BOUDIN, GALERIA BECCHE, SANTIAGO, CHILE.
There was no message evidently, as he took particular notice. Though not
an implicit believer in the lurid story narrated (or the eggsniping
transaction for that matter despite William Tell and the Lazarillo-Don
Cesar de Bazan incident depicted in MARITANA on which occasion the
former's ball passed through the latter's hat) having detected a
discrepancy between his name (assuming he was the person he represented
himself to be and not sailing under false colours after having boxed the
compass on the strict q.t. somewhere) and the fictitious addressee of the
missive which made him nourish some suspicions of our friend's BONA FIDES
nevertheless it reminded him in a way of a longcherished plan he meant to
one day realise some Wednesday or Saturday of travelling to London via
long sea not to say that he had ever travelled extensively to any great
extent but he was at heart a born adventurer though by a trick of fate he
had consistently remained a landlubber except you call going to Holyhead
which was his longest. Martin Cunningham frequently said he would work a
pass through Egan but some deuced hitch or other eternally cropped up
with the net result that the scheme fell through. But even suppose it did
come to planking down the needful and breaking Boyd's heart it was not so
dear, purse permitting, a few guineas at the outside considering the fare
to Mullingar where he figured on going was five and six, there and back.
The trip would benefit health on account of the bracing ozone and be in
every way thoroughly pleasurable, especially for a chap whose liver was
out of order, seeing the different places along the route, Plymouth,
Falmouth, Southampton and so on culminating in an instructive tour of the
sights of the great metropolis, the spectacle of our modern Babylon where
doubtless he would see the greatest improvement, tower, abbey, wealth of
Park lane to renew acquaintance with. Another thing just struck him as a
by no means bad notion was he might have a gaze around on the spot to see
about trying to make arrangements about a concert tour of summer music
embracing the most prominent pleasure resorts, Margate with mixed bathing
and firstrate hydros and spas, Eastbourne, Scarborough, Margate and so
on, beautiful Bournemouth, the Channel islands and similar bijou spots,
which might prove highly remunerative. Not, of course, with a hole and
corner scratch company or local ladies on the job, witness Mrs C P M'Coy
type lend me your valise and I'll post you the ticket. No, something top
notch, an all star Irish caste, the Tweedy-Flower grand opera company
with his own legal consort as leading lady as a sort of counterblast to
the Elster Grimes and Moody-Manners, perfectly simple matter and he was
quite sanguine of success, providing puffs in the local papers could be
managed by some fellow with a bit of bounce who could pull the
indispensable wires and thus combine business with pleasure. But who?
That was the rub. Also, without being actually positive, it struck him a
great field was to be opened up in the line of opening up new routes to
keep pace with the times APROPOS of the Fishguard-Rosslare route which,
it was mooted, was once more on the TAPIS in the circumlocution
departments with the usual quantity of red tape and dillydallying of
effete fogeydom and dunderheads generally. A great opportunity there
certainly was for push and enterprise to meet the travelling needs of the
public at large, the average man, i.e. Brown, Robinson and Co.
|