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Did you hear that one； he asked them； about Mulcahy from the Coombe？
I did not； Martin Cunningham said。
They bent their silk hats in concert and Hynes inclined his ear。 The caretaker hung his thumbs in the loops of his gold watch chain and spoke in a discreet tone to their vacant smiles。
They tell the story； he said； that two drunks came out here one foggy evening to look for the grave of a friend of theirs。 They asked for Mulcahy from the Coombe and were told where he was buried。 After traipsing about in the fog they found the grave； sure enough。 One of the drunks spelt out the name： Terence Mulcahy。 The other drunk was blinking up at a statue of our Saviour the widow had got put up。
The caretaker blinked up at one of the sepulchres they passed。 He resumed：
And； after blinking up at the sacred figure； Not a bloody bit like the man； says he。 That's not Mulcahy； says he； whoever done it。
Rewarded by smiles he fell back and spoke with Corny Kelleher； accepting the dockets given him； turning them over and scanning them as he walked。
That's all done with a purpose； Martin Cunningham explained to Hynes。
I know； Hynes said； I know that。
To cheer a fellow up； Martin Cunningham said。 It's pure goodheartedness： damn the thing else。
Mr Bloom admired the caretaker's prosperous bulk。 All want to be on good terms with him。 Decent fellow； John O'Connell； real good sort。 Keys： like Keyes's ad： no fear of anyone getting out； no passout checks。 Habeat corpus。 I must see about that ad after the funeral。 Did I write Ballsbridge on the envelope I took to cover when she disturbed me writing to Martha？ Hope it's not chucked in the dead letter office。 Be the better of a shave。 Grey sprouting beard。 That's the first sign when the hairs e out grey and temper getting cross。 Silver threads among the grey。 Fancy being his wife。 Wonder how he had the gumption to propose to any girl。 e out and live in the graveyard。 Dangle that before her。 It might thrill her first。 Courting death。。。 Shades of night hovering here with all the dead stretched about。 The shadows of the tombs when churchyards yawn and Daniel O'Connell must be a descendant I suppose who is this used to say he was a queer breedy man great catholic all the same like a big giant in the dark。 Will o'the wisp。 Gas of graves。 Want to keep her mind off it to conceive at all。 Women especially are so touchy。 Tell her a ghost story in bed to make her sleep。 Have you ever seen a ghost？ Well； I have。 It was a pitchdark night。 The clock was on the stroke of twelve。 Still they'd kiss all right if properly keyed up。 Whores in Turkish graveyards。 Learn anything if taken young。 You might pick up a young widow here。 Men like that。 Love among the tombstones。 Romeo。 Spice of pleasure。 In the midst of death we are in life。 Both ends meet。 Tantalising for the poor dead。 Smell of frilled beefsteaks to the starving gnawing their vitals。 Desire to grig people。 Molly wanting to do it at the window。 Eight children he has anyway。
He has seen a fair share go under in his time； lying around him field after field。 Holy fields。 More room if they buried them standing。 Sitting or kneeling you couldn't。 Standing？ His head might e up some day above ground in a landslip with his hand pointing。 All honeybed the ground must be： oblong cells。 And very neat he keeps it too； trim grass and edgings。 His garden Major Gamble calls Mount Jerome。 Well so it is。 Ought to be flowers of sleep。 Chinese cemeteries with giant poppies growing produce the best opium Mastiansky told me。 The Botanic Gardens are just over there。 It's the blood sinking in the earth gives new life。 Same idea those jews they said killed the christian boy。 Every man his price。 Well preserved fat corpse gentleman； epicure； invaluable for fruit garden。 A bargain。 By carcass of William Wilkinson； auditor and accountant； lately deceased； three pounds thirteen and six。 With thanks。
I daresay the soil would be quite fat with corpse manure； bones； flesh； nails； charnelhouses。 Dreadful。 Turning green and pink； deposing。 Rot quick in damp earth。 The lean old ones tougher。 Then a kind of a tallowy kind of a cheesy。 Then begin to get black； treacle oozing out of them。 Then dried up。 Deathmoths。 Of course the cells or whatever they are go on living。 Changing about。 Live for ever practically。 Nothing to feed on feed on themselves。
But they must breed a devil of a lot of maggots。 Soil must be simply swirling with them。 Your head it simply swurls。 Those pretty little seaside gurls。 He looks cheerful enough over it。 Gives him a sense of power seeing all the others go under first。 Wonder how he looks at life。 Cracking his jokes too： warms the cockles of his heart。 The one about the bulletin。 Spurgeon went to heaven 4 A。M。 this morning。 11 P。M。 （closing time）。 Not arrived yet。 Peter。 The dead themselves the men anyhow would like to hear an odd joke or the women to know what's in fashion。 A juicy pear or ladies' punch； hot； strong and sweet。 Keep out the damp。 You must laugh sometimes so better do it that way。 Gravediggers in Hamlet。 Shows the profound knowledge of the human heart。 Daren't joke about the dead for two years at least。 De mortuis nil nisi prius。 Go out of mourning first。 Hard to imagine his funeral。 Seems a sort of a joke。 Read your own obituary notice they say you live longer。 Gives you second wind。 New lease of life。
How many have you for tomorrow？ the caretaker asked。
Two； Corny Kelleher said。 Half ten and eleven。
The caretaker put the papers in his pocket。 The barrow had ceased to trundle。 The mourners split and moved to each side of the hole； stepping with care round the graves。 The gravediggers bore the coffin and set its nose on the brink； looping the bands round it。
Burying him。 We e to bury Caesar。 His ides of March or June。 He doesn't know who is here nor care。
Now who is that lankylooking galoot over there in the macintosh？ Now who is he I'd like to know？ Now； I'd give a trifle to know who he is。 Always someone turns up you never dreamt of。 A fellow could live on his lonesome all his life。 Yes； he could。 Still he'd have to get someone to sod him after he died though he could dig his own grave。 We all do。 Only man buries。 No ants too。 First thing strikes anybody。 Bury the dead。 Say Robinson Crusoe was true to life。 Well then Friday buried him。 Every Friday buries a Thursday if you e to look at it。
O； poor Robinson Crusoe；
How could you possibly do so？
Poor Dignam！ His last lie on the earth in his box。 When you think of them all it does seem a waste of wood。 All gnawed through。 They could invent a handsome bier with a kind of panel sliding let it down that way。 Ay but they might object to be buried out of another fellow's。 They're so particular。 Lay me in my native earth。 Bit of clay from the holy land。 Only a mother and deadborn child ever buried in the one coffin。 I see what it means。 I see。 To protect him as long as possible even in the earth。 The Irishman's house is his coffin。 Enbalming in catabs； mummies； the same idea。
Mr Bloom stood far back； his hat in his hand； counting the bared heads。 Twelve。 I'm thirteen。 No。 The chap in the macintosh is thirteen。 Death's number。 Where the deuce did he pop out of？ He wasn't i