--Your son and heir.

--Where is he? Mr Dedalus said, stretching over across.

The carriage, passing the open drains and mounds of rippedup
roadway before the tenement houses, lurched round the corner and,
swerving back to the tramtrack, rolled on noisily with chattering wheels.
Mr Dedalus fell back, saying:

--Was that Mulligan cad with him? His FIDUS ACHATES!

--No, Mr Bloom said. He was alone.

--Down with his aunt Sally, I suppose, Mr Dedalus said, the Goulding
faction, the drunken little costdrawer and Crissie, papa's little lump of
dung, the wise child that knows her own father.

Mr Bloom smiled joylessly on Ringsend road. Wallace Bros: the
bottleworks: Dodder bridge.

Richie Goulding and the legal bag. Goulding, Collis and Ward he
calls the firm. His jokes are getting a bit damp. Great card he was.
Waltzing in Stamer street with Ignatius Gallaher on a Sunday morning, the
landlady's two hats pinned on his head. Out on the rampage all night.
Beginning to tell on him now: that backache of his, I fear. Wife ironing
his back. Thinks he'll cure it with pills. All breadcrumbs they are.
About six hundred per cent profit.

--He's in with a lowdown crowd, Mr Dedalus snarled. That Mulligan is a