l-yous.

    -- Do you think so? asked Mr Dedalus.

    -- I like it, said Stephen.

    -- Its a pretty old air, said Mr Dedalus, ts of ac you s! Poor Mick Lacy! tle turns for it, grace notes t o put in t I  got. t he boy who could sing a come-all-you, if you like.

    Mr Dedalus  and during ter for local ne part t cross purposes er  her.

    -- ell, I  moved t to s to ter of mine.

    Along trees ered ter across t t to a  after every dozen or so paces by some reply of ters.

    -- Aell me so? And is poor Pottlebelly dead?

    -- Yes, sir. Dead, sir.

    During ts Stepood a and ing restlessly for to begin again. By time tlessness o fever. er; and tertained ated his ears.

    to tomy tre epre and by t udy. On tus cut several times in tained artled o feel t students of t o so evoke, sprang up before  of t in tudent acting in tters udents stood or sat near  udent turned on an boots.

    Stepeps of tre so as to be as far a ials, hid his flushed face.

    But toe. It so find in ter race of isrous reveries came to oo  of mere o s, rous images, and alless and sickened of  over him.

    -- Ay, bedad! And ten  you, Stepime  dotle Jack Mountain and Bob Dyas and Maurice Moriarty, tom OGrady and Mick Lacy t I told you of t and poor little good-ed Joantiles.

    trees along tir and eam of cricketers passed, agile young men in flannels and blazers, one of t-bag. In a quiet bystreet a German band of five players in faded uniforms and tered brass instr