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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Стр. 95/821
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He
tore
away
half
the
prize
story
sharply
and
wiped
himself
with
it
.
Then
he
girded
up
his
trousers
,
braced
and
buttoned
himself
.
He
pulled
back
the
jerky
shaky
door
of
the
jakes
and
came
forth
from
the
gloom
into
the
air
.
In
the
bright
light
,
lightened
and
cooled
in
limb
,
he
eyed
carefully
his
black
trousers
:
the
ends
,
the
knees
,
the
houghs
of
the
knees
.
What
time
is
the
funeral
?
Better
find
out
in
the
paper
.
A
creak
and
a
dark
whirr
in
the
air
high
up
.
The
bells
of
George
’
s
church
.
They
tolled
the
hour
:
loud
dark
iron
.
Heigho
!
Heigho
!
Heigho
!
Heigho
!
Heigho
!
Heigho
!
Quarter
to
.
There
again
:
the
overtone
following
through
the
air
.
A
third
.
Poor
Dignam
!
By
lorries
along
sir
John
Rogerson
’
s
quay
Mr
Bloom
walked
soberly
,
past
Windmill
lane
,
Leask
’
s
the
linseed
crusher
,
the
postal
telegraph
office
.
Could
have
given
that
address
too
.
And
past
the
sailors
’
home
.
He
turned
from
the
morning
noises
of
the
quayside
and
walked
through
Lime
street
.
By
Brady
’
s
cottages
a
boy
for
the
skins
lolled
,
his
bucket
of
offal
linked
,
smoking
a
chewed
fagbutt
.
A
smaller
girl
with
scars
of
eczema
on
her
forehead
eyed
him
,
listlessly
holding
her
battered
caskhoop
.
Tell
him
if
he
smokes
he
won
’
t
grow
.
O
let
him
!
His
life
isn
’
t
such
a
bed
of
roses
.
Waiting
outside
pubs
to
bring
da
home
.
Come
home
to
ma
,
da
.
Slack
hour
:
won
’
t
be
many
there
.
He
crossed
Townsend
street
,
passed
the
frowning
face
of
Bethel
.
El
,
yes
:
house
of
:
Aleph
,
Beth
.
And
past
Nichols
’
the
undertaker
.
At
eleven
it
is
.
Time
enough
.
Daresay
Corny
Kelleher
bagged
the
job
for
O
’
Neill
’
s
.
Singing
with
his
eyes
shut
.
Corny
.
Met
her
once
in
the
park
.
In
the
dark
.
What
a
lark
.
Police
tout
.
Her
name
and
address
she
then
told
with
my
tooraloom
tooraloom
tay
.
O
,
surely
he
bagged
it
.
Bury
him
cheap
in
a
whatyoumaycall
.
With
my
tooraloom
,
tooraloom
,
tooraloom
,
tooraloom
.
In
Westland
row
he
halted
before
the
window
of
the
Belfast
and
Oriental
Tea
Company
and
read
the
legends
of
leadpapered
packets
:
choice
blend
,
finest
quality
,
family
tea
.
Rather
warm
.
Tea
.
Must
get
some
from
Tom
Kernan
.
Couldn
’
t
ask
him
at
a
funeral
,
though
.
While
his
eyes
still
read
blandly
he
took
off
his
hat
quietly
inhaling
his
hairoil
and
sent
his
right
hand
with
slow
grace
over
his
brow
and
hair
.
Very
warm
morning
.
