So then after that they drifted on to the wreck of Daunt's rock， wreck of that illfated Norwegian barque - nobody could think of her name for the moment till the jarvey who had really quite a look of Henry Campbell remembered it， Palme， on Booterstown Strand， that was the talk of the town that year (Albert William Quill wrote a fine piece of original verse of distinctive merit on the topic for the Irish Times) breakers running over her and crowds and crowds on the shore in commotion petrified with horror. Then someone said something about the case of the s. s. Lady Cairns of Swansea， run into by the Mona， which was on an Opposite tack， in rather muggyish weather and lost with all hands on deck. No aid was given. Her master， the Mona's， said he was afraid his collision bulkhead would give way. She had no water， it appears， in her hold.
At this stage an incident happened. It having become necessary for him to unfurl a reef， the sailor vacated his seat.
-- Let me cross your bows， mate， he said to his neighbour， who was just gently dropping off into a peaceful dose.
He made tracks heavily， slowly， with a dumpy sort of a gait to the door， stepped heavily down the one step there was out of the shelter and bore due left. While he was in the act of getting his bearings， Mr Bloom， who noticed when he stood up that he had two flasks of presumably ship's rum sticking one out of each pocket for the private consumption of his burning interior， saw him produce a bottle and uncork it， or unscrew， and， applying its nozzle to his lips， take a good old delectable swig out of it with a gurgling noise. The irrepressible Bloom， who also had a shrewd suspicion that the old stager went out on a manoeuvre after the counterattraction in the shape of a female， who， however， had disappeared to all intents and purposes， could， by straining， just perceive him， when duly refreshed by his rum puncheon exploit， gazing up at the piers and girders of the Loop Line， rather out of his depth， as of course it was all radically altered since his last visit and greatly improved. Some person or persons invisible directed him to the male urinal erected by the cleansing committee all over the place for the purpose but， after a brief space of time during which silence reigned supreme， the sailor， evidently giving it a wide berth， eased himself close at hand， the noise of his bilge-water some little time subsequently splashing on the ground where it apparently woke a horse of the cabrank.
A hoof scooped anyway for new foothold after sleep and harness jingled. Slightly disturbed in his sentrybox by the brasier of live coke， the watcher of the corporation， who， though now broken down and fast breaking up， was none other in stern reality than the Gumley aforesaid， now practically on the parish rates， given the temporary job by Pat Tobin in all human probability， from dictates of humanity， knowing him before - shifted about and shuffled in his box before composing his limbs again in the arms of Morpheus. A truly amazing piece of hard times in its most virulent form on a fellow most respectably connected and familiarised with decent home comforts all his life who came in for a cool #100 a year at one time which of course the double-barrelled ass proceeded to make general ducks and drakes of. And there he was at the end of his tether after having often painted the town tolerably pink， without a beggarly stiver. He drank， needless to be told， and it pointed only once more a moral when he might quite easily be in a large way of business if - a big if， however - he had contrived to cure himself of his particular partiality.
All， meantime， were loudly lamenting the falling off in Irish shipping， coastwise and foreign as well， which was all part and parcel of the same thing. A Palgrave Murphy boat was put off the ways at Alexandra Basin， the only launch that year. Right enough the harbours were there only no ships ever called.
There were wrecks and wrecks， the keeper said， who was evidently au fait.
What he wanted to ascertain was why that ship ran bang against the only rock in Galway Bay when the Galway Harbour scheme was mooted by a Mr Worthington or some name like that， eh？ Ask her captain， he advised them， how much palmoil the British Government gave him for that day's work. Captain John Lever of the Lever line.
-- Am I right， skipper？ he queried of the sailor now returning after his private potation and the rest of his exertions.
That worthy， picking up the scent of the fagend of the song or words， growled in wouldbe music， but with great vim， some Kind of chanty or other in seconds or thirds. Mr Bloom's sharp ears heard him then expectorate the plug probably (which it was)， so that he must have lodged it for the time being in his fist while he did the drinking and making water jobs and found it a bit sour after the liquid fire in question. Anyhow in he rolled after his successful libation-cum-potation， introducing an atmosphere of drink into the soirée， boisterously trolling， like a veritable son of a seacook：
-- The biscuits was as hard as brass，
And the beef as salt as Lot's wife's arse.
O Johnny Lever！
Johnny Lever， O！
After which effusion the redoubtable specimen duly arrived on the scene and， regaining his seat， he sank rather than sat heavily on the form provided.