-- what is he? he asked. what does he do? wasn't he in the stationery line? i fell foul of him one evening, i remember, at bowls.
ned lambert smiled.
-- yes, he was, he said, in wisdom hely's. a traveller for blottingpaper.
-- in god's name, john henry menton said, what did she marry a coon like that for? she had plenty of game in her then.
-- has still, ned lambert said. he does some canvassing for ads.
john henry menton's large eyes stared ahead.
the barrow turned into a side lane. a portly man, ambushed among the grasses, raised his hat in homage. the gravediggers touched their caps.
-- john o'connell, mr power said, pleased. he never forgets a friend.
mr o'connell shook all their hands in silence. mr dedalus said:
-- i am come to pay you another visit.
-- my dear simon, the caretaker answered in a low voice. i don't want your custom at all.
saluting ned lambert and john henry menton he walked on at martin cunningham's side, puzzling two keys at his back.
-- 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: