Chapter 30 Chapter Sixteen 1

Mr. Bloom first brushed off most of the shavings from Stephen's clothes, and handed him his hat and wooden cane, giving him the encouragement that a good Samaritan has done, which Stephen desperately needed .His (Stephen's) mind was not quite deranged, but not very stable.When he indicated that he would like something to drink, Mr. Bloom considered that at this hour there was not even a Valtteri pump for washing hands, let alone drinking water.As an expedient he suddenly thought of going to the shop known as the Coachman's Shed, a stone's throw to the left of Butte Bridge, and perhaps getting a milk soda or mineral water.The difficulty is how to get there.He didn't know what to do at the moment, but it was an imperative and urgent problem.Just as he was trying his best to think of a way, Stephen yawned again and again.He could see that Stephen's face was a little pale.Both of them (Stephen especially) were exhausted, and it would be great if they could find some means of transportation under the circumstances.He thought he would find it.His slightly soapy handkerchief, having done its duty of dusting the shavings, fell to the floor, and he forgot to pick it up, but wiped it with his hands.When ready, the two of them walked together down Beaver Street (or, rather, Beaver Lane) as far as the corner of Montgomery Street to the horseshoe shed and the stinking cab shop, to Turn left and turn again at Dan Birkin's into Armens Street.He was quite sure, but unexpectedly, there was no sign of the coachman waiting for the customers anywhere.There was only a carriage parked outside the North Star Hotel, which might have been hired by the revelers inside.Though never a whistler, Mr. Bloom raised his arms, arched his head, and whistled a couple of hard whistles in greeting to the carriage, which made no sign of moving.

The situation is really embarrassing.The situation was so clearly laid out that the only recourse was apparently to walk as if nothing had happened.They did just that.Presently they came to Murrett's Food Store and the signal station, cut in obliquely, and had to walk toward the Armens Street tram terminus.A button on the back of Mr. Bloom's trousers, to use an old saying, like all buttons, has finally come to nothing.Mr. Bloom, notwithstanding his embarrassing position, valiantly endured this inconvenience, owing to his thorough understanding of the nature of the situation.Neither of them had any urgent matters, just now the rain god came to visit, but now it has cleared up and the sky is clear.They sauntered past the empty waiting carriage, which had neither passenger nor driver.At this time, a Dublin United Tramway Company's sand truck came back.So the elder[3] talked to his companion about his truly miraculous life just now.They passed the front entrance of Great Northern Railway Station, the starting point for the journey to Belfast.In the middle of the night, all traffic has naturally been cut off.They walked through the back door of the morgue (which, if not creepy, is not attractive anyway, especially at night), and finally arrived at the Quay Hotel, and then into the warehouse known as the C-area police station street.On the walk from here to the towering warehouses in Beresford Street, now darkened, Ibsen was on Stephen's mind.The workshop of Baird the stonemason, on the first corner on Talbot Street to the right, somehow aroused his association[4].Meanwhile, the other, who was Stephen's faithful Achatis, sniffed with heartfelt joy the near-by smell of James Rourke's Metropolitan Bakery,[6] our daily The fragrance of food[7] is indeed delicious, and it is the most important and indispensable among the daily commodities of the public.Bread, the necessities of life, earn your bread[8], oh tell me where is the fancy bread[9]?It is said to be in this Rourke bakery.

On the way[10], Mr. Bloom, not only not losing his mind at all, but indeed more sober than usual, to his taciturn—to put it frankly, not quite sober companion,[11] Night Street Warning about the danger.He said that an occasional dealing with a whore or a well-dressed, gentleman-dressed pickpocket was all right, but once you got used to it, especially if you were a drunk, it was a deadly trap for a lad of Stephen's age. .Unless you know self-defense jujitsu, otherwise, if you don't pay attention, the guy who has fallen on his back will also kick you despicably.By the luck of Stephen's passing, Corny Kelleher arrived.This is really a blessing.If he hadn't shown up at this last juncture, Stephen would have ended up being a candidate for an asylum, or a candidate for prison; the next day in court to see Tobias The fate of [13].No, he's a lawyer, and maybe he'll have to see Old Wall, or Mahoney.After this story gets out, you will be ruined.Why does Mr. Bloom say that, because, in truth, the policemen whom he wholeheartedly loathe, are open to any means in their service to the Emperor.Mr. Bloom recalled a case or two in Clan Brasil A, where the gang had falsified the facts and turned the facts upside down.They were never there when they were needed; but as peaceful a part of the town as Pembroke Street was, it was full of defenders of the law.Apparently they were hired to protect the upper class.He also spoke of arming soldiers with ready-to-fire rifles and pistols, and said that it was nothing less than inciting the soldiers to provoke the townsfolk when the townspeople somehow started to quarrel.He wisely pointed out that you are wasting your time, your body, and your personality.That's not enough, and spendthrifts, letting those slutty women of the Willow World[16] cheat you out of your pounds, shillings, and pence, and run away.Speaking of which, the most dangerous thing is what kind of partner you get drunk with.Take this very disturbing alcoholic drink, which he himself always enjoys on time, with a glass of well-chosen old wine, tonic, hematopoietic, and laxative (especially for fine Burgundy psychic effects, he firmly believes).However, he never exceeded his prescribed drinking capacity, otherwise he would indeed cause endless troubles, so he had to simply let the kindness of others be at the mercy of others.He said in a harsh tone that, except for one person, Stephen's drinking buddies [17] all abandoned him. In any case, this was the greatest betrayal of his medical classmates.

"And that fellow is a Judas," said Stephen, who had been silent. They talked about things like that, took a short cut past customs, and walked under the land bridge of the circular line.At this time, a pot of charcoal was burning in front of the sentry box (or a similar place), attracting them who were walking with heavy feet.Stephen stopped spontaneously for no particular reason, and looked at the pile of bare cobblestones.With the dim light from the brazier, he vaguely recognized the darker figure of the night watchman of the city hall in the dim sentry box.He began to remember that this had happened before, or had been heard to have happened.He struggled to remember that the Night's Watch was his father's old friend Gomulli.In order to avoid meeting each other, he walked close to the pillars of the railway land bridge.

"Someone greets you," said Mr. Bloom. A figure of medium height, who was quietly pacing up and down under the vault of the land bridge, greeted again. "Good night!"[20] Of course Stephen was taken aback, stopped in a daze, and returned the gift.Mr. Bloom was born to be considerate and considerate! , and I always thought that I should not meddle in other people's business, so I walked away.Although he didn't feel scared at all, he was a little uneasy, so he stayed there vigilantly.Although this is rare in the Dublin area, there will still be desperadoes who lack food and clothing to ambush in the wilderness, threatening to put a pistol on the head of a quiet passer-by.They might hang around like those hungry poor bums on the banks of the Thames, surprise you and make you hand over your money or kill you.After snatching you up, they stuffed your mouth, strangled your neck with a rope, and left you there to warn others, and they ran away.

As the figure of the man who greeted him approached, Stephen himself, with a hangover, could smell Corley's breath reeking of rancid cornwhiskey.The man, known by some as Lord John Curley, has the following genealogy: he was the eldest son of the recently deceased Sergeant Colley of G District.The police officer married the daughter of a farmer in Loche, named Catherine.Brophy.His grandfather, Patrick Michael, Corley, of New Ross, married the daughter of a local innkeeper, also named Catherine, née Talbot.Though not confirmed, she is rumored to have been of Lord Talbert de Malahide[23].No doubt the lord's mansion was a fine mansion, a sight to behold, and her mother or aunt or some relation had had the honor of being a laundress at the mansion.The younger but dissolute man who now greeted Stephen was therefore jokingly called Lord John Curley by some good-natured people.

He took Stephen aside, and began his usual pathetic complaint.He was so empty that he could not lodge.His friends all deserted him.That's not all, he and Lenehan had another quarrel.He lashed out at Lenehan to Stephen, what a vile, damned fool, and a whole host of other unnecessarily bad words.He was out of a job, and begged Stephen to tell him where he could get some sort of job in the middle of nowhere.No, the mother's daughter who worked in that laundry was godsister to the heiress; or either their mother had something to do with the branch.These are two events happening at the same time, unless the whole plot is a complete fabrication from start to finish.He was downright tired anyway.

"I don't mean to tell you," he went on, "but I solemnly swear that God knows I'm broke." "You'll get a job tomorrow or the day after tomorrow," Stephen told him, "as a substitute teacher at a boys' school in Dalkey. Mr. Garrett Deasy. Try it. You can mention my name .” "Oh, my God," Corley replied, "I'm no teacher material, man. I was never one of your kind," he added with a half-smile, "I was in the Christian Brothers [25 ]’s junior class had two grades left.” "I have nowhere to sleep myself," Stephen told him.

Corley guessed right away that Stephen had been kicked out for bringing a rotten bitch into the apartment from the street.There was a Mrs Maloney's Mrs Maloney's inn in Marlborough Street, but it was only a sixpence place, full of dubious people.McConacky told him, however, that at Brasshead on Tavern Street (the listener vaguely reminded Friar Bacon[26]) he could get a comfortable night's lodging for a shilling.He was starving, but he didn't say a word. Even though such things happen every other night (or almost), Stephen's heart beats.He knew that Corley's newly made-up words were as a rule implausible, but, as the Latin poet said: "I am not ignorant of misfortune, so I know how to save those who are in doom."[27] ] Besides, it happened to be on the 16th day of the month, and he received his salary, but the money had actually been spent a lot.The most ironic thing is that Corley thinks that Stephen is rich and has nothing to do all day long, giving alms everywhere.Actually.Anyway, he put his hand in his pocket, not expecting to find anything to eat there, but intending to lend Corley a shilling or two so that he could work his way up and make some money to meet his needs.But it turned out to be empty!To his chagrin, he found that his money was gone, except for a few cracker crumbs.At this time, he racked his brains to recall whether he had lost the money or forgotten it somewhere—because there were possibilities.This unexpected event, far from being a source of optimism, is frankly frustrating.He tried to track down the biscuit, which remained vaguely in his memory, but was too exhausted to figure it out thoroughly.Exactly who gave it to him, and where, or did he buy it? Anyway, he found it in another pocket—in the darkness, he Thought it was a few pennies, but was mistaken.

"It's half-crowns, old man," Corley corrected him. as expected.Stephen lent him one. "Thanks," replied Corley, "you're a gentleman. I'll pay you back sooner or later. Who's that guy with you, I saw him a few times at the Blood Horse in Camden Street." Come back, with Boylan who posted the ad. Can you make a deal for me and let them hire me, I want to be an ad man[28], but the girl in the office[29] told me that It's full in three weeks. Man. God, you gotta pre-register, man. It's almost like watching Carl Rosa. Even if it can be mixed with a sidewalk job, I don't even care."

Thus, now that he had two shillings and sixpence, he was less dismayed.So he told Stephen that there was a guy called Bugs Komiski who was the bookkeeper at Fulham's boat shop--he said he was an acquaintance of Stephen's, and this guy was with O'Mara and a little guy named Tye Stuttering, a regular in the private room of Nagel's bar.Anyway, the night before yesterday he got drunk and was drinking like crazy.The police wanted to take him away, but he resisted again.As a result, he was arrested and fined ten shillings. Meanwhile Mr. Bloom, taking cover, paced to and fro about a great pile of cobblestones not far from the coal fire in front of the town watchman's box.The night watchman was evidently a man of duty, but at the moment, now that all Dublin was asleep, he seemed to be slipping off to a nap of his own accord.From time to time, he would cast strange glances at Stephen's negligently dressed counterpart, as if he had seen that "nobility" somewhere, but he couldn't tell where.As for when it was, I can't even remember it at all.Mr. Bloom was a level-headed man, keenly observant, and easily caught up with others.From the battered hat and sloppy clothes, he saw through that it was a person suffering from chronic lack of money.He was probably one of the guys who sucked on Stephen.Speaking of profiteering, this person cheated his neighbors and neighbors, and he got deeper and deeper, which can be described as deeper [31].Speaking of it, if this kind of homeless person on the street stands in the dock of the court, it is still rare to be sentenced to imprisonment whether it can be replaced by a fine or not[32].Anyway, at night, or rather early in the morning, it is really thick-skinned to stop people on the road like this.The means are indeed unbearable. The two parted, and Stephen rejoined Mr. Bloom.Mr. Bloom's experienced eyes saw at once that the parasite had tricked Stephen by his rhetoric.He—that is to say, Stephen—smiled and referred to the encounter just now: "That guy's down and out. He wants me to ask you to go talk to Boylan who put up the ad and get him to hire him as an ad man." Mr. Bloom, with a look of indifference on his face, turned vacantly towards the ancient dredger - which had been given the nickname of Abramna and seemed beyond repair - He looked in the direction of the scene for half a second, then he evasively said: "As the saying goes, everyone has their share of good fortune. After you mentioned it, I thought I knew him quite well. Let's not talk about it," he then asked, "What do you give How much did you pay him? Excuse me for asking so deeply." "Half a crown," replied Stephen, "I reckon he'll need that much for a place to sleep." "Need!" exclaimed Mr. Bloom suddenly, without expressing the slightest surprise at this, "I take your word for it completely, and I can assure you that he will need it anyway. And yet, as the saying goes," he added with a smile, "where are you going to sleep yourself? It's impossible to walk back to Savannah. And even if you You can't get in after what happened at Westland Cross Street Station.[34] It's exhausting for nothing. I don't want to judge you at all, but why did you leave your father Where is your home?" Stephen's answer was: "Go and seek bad luck." "I happened to see your lordship recently," returned Mr. Bloom diplomatically. "It was actually today, or rather yesterday. Where does he live now? From the conversation I heard that, He has moved." "I believe he lives somewhere in Dublin," replied Stephen casually. "Why do you ask that?" "He's a man of talent," said Mr. Bloom, of old Mr. Dedalus, "in more ways than one. He's a better storyteller than anyone else.[35] He's very proud of you, That's a matter of course, too. You might go home," he said mildly, but he was still thinking about the unpleasant scene at the Westerland terminus: the other two fellows - Mulligan and his English traveling companion, As if the nasty station belonged to them, apparently trying to take advantage of the chaos to get rid of Stephen, and finally getting their third mate to fall for it. However, his suggestion did not receive a response.This was due to the fact that Stephen was busy reliving in his mind the last time he was reunited with his family.Dilly, with her long hair, sat by the fire and waited for the thin Trinidadian cacao in the soot-filled pot to boil for drinking with the oatmeal water instead of milk.It was Friday[37] and they had just finished their two-penny herring, and Maggie, Brew, and Katie had an egg each.That day coincided with Lent of the Four Seasons or something else, according to the third commandment of the church to observe fasting and abstinence on designated days, the cat was also eating the cluster of egg shells and fish heads on a square of brown paper under the liquid squeezer fish bone. "Well," repeated Mr. Bloom, "in your position, I personally wouldn't trust your Dr. Mulligan, who provided the jokes as guide, philosopher, and friend. He probably I've never tasted the taste of being invincible, but he is astute when it comes to his own interests. Of course, you don't notice it as much as I do, but if someone tells me that he has some motives for your I am not at all surprised that a pinch of tobacco or some narcotic is put in the drink." From all he had heard in the past, he knew that Dr. Mulligan was a versatile man, not just in medicine.He rose rapidly in his field.If the rumors are true, he will become a popular doctor in the near future, and the diagnosis and treatment fees will keep pouring in.In addition to this professional position, he was at Skelly or Malahide, [38] resuscitating a nearly drowned man by artificial respiration and what is called first aid.It must be admitted that this was an act of incomparable bravery which cannot be overstated.It was difficult to fathom what underlying grounds, if not pure malice or jealousy, he felt for Mulligan's dislike. "At the end of the day, he's exactly what people call stealing your mind," he tried to say. Now Stephen was frowning.Out of friendship, he gave Stephen a cautious look of concern and curiosity.But the problem was not cleared up, indeed not at all.Judging from Stephen's despondent words, was the young man being severely teased, or was it the other way around: although he had seen the truth of the matter, for reasons that only he knew best, he was more or less Be the default.This is the inevitable consequence of extreme poverty, which is completely understandable.Despite Stephen's high talents as a teacher, he had to suffer a lot just to make ends meet. He saw an ice cream truck parked near the men's public urinal.Around the car was probably a group of Italians, who were a little bit at odds with each other, speaking their lively language, eloquently, and fighting fiercely. "Bitch of the Virgin Mary, he's the one to pay me! Can you say no? Damn it!" "Let's settle the bill. Add half a guinea..." "Anyway, that's what he said!" "The scoundrel! His ancestors lack virtue!"[39] Mr. Bloom and Stephen entered the coachman's shed, a rough timber-framed building into which he had previously entered easily.About the proprietor there--the one who was once famous for "skinning the goat," that is to say, "The Ever-Victorious" FitzHarris--he whispered something to Stephen beforehand.Of course, the boss himself does not admit that it is true, and it is likely to be completely nonsense.Seconds later, we two sleepwalkers were seated safely in an inconspicuous corner.Those who had come earlier were eating, drinking, and chatting freely, evidently a motley assortment of vagabonds, bums, and other dubious individuals.[41]At this time, greet them with a gaze.In the eyes of those people, they seemed to be objects of great curiosity. "Coffee now," suggested Mr. Bloom gently, trying to break the silence. "I think you ought to have something solid, say, a roll or something." His first act, therefore, was to order these meals serenely with his characteristic calm[42].The handlebars or porters of the hansoms, and other assorted lowlifes, gave them a hasty look, and, evidently disappointed, looked away.But a grizzled red-bearded drunk (a sailor, perhaps) continued to stare at them for a long while before turning his earnest eyes to the floor. To tell the truth, Mr. Bloom, though puzzled by the pronunciation I wanted[43], knew something of the language in which the argument was being made.So, exercising his right to freedom of speech, he shouted to his protege against the fierce verbal war that was still going on outdoors: "Beautiful language. I mean when it's used for singing. Why don't you write poetry in this language, beautiful Xi[44]! Such a beautiful and resounding tone. Beautiful ninja. I want it." Stephen was bored, and trying to yawn, replied: "Let the mother elephant listen. They're haggling." "Really?" asked Mr Bloom.He thought to himself that there was absolutely no need for so many languages, and he went on to say: "It sounds good to me, maybe it's just because of the charm of the southern country around me." While they were having a heart-to-heart talk[45], the coachman-shedkeeper placed on the table a steaming, almost overflowing cup of the superior mixed drink called coffee, and a bun—or rather, from ancient times. Variety, or so it seems.Then he went back to the counter.Mr. Bloom made up his mind to look at him carefully for a while, but he couldn't let him notice it. . The thing called coffee slowly pushed towards Stephen. "Voices are deceptive," said Stephen, after a long pause, "names. Cicero, Padmore. Napoleon, Mr. Goodbardy. Jesus, Mr. Doyle.[46 ] Shakespeare is as mundane a name as Murphy. What is the meaning of a name?[47]” "Yes, of course," agreed Mr. Bloom bluntly, "isn't it. My family name has changed, too," he added, pushing the so-called roll past. The red-bearded sailor, who had been scrutinizing the newcomer with his world-wise, watchful eyes, paid particular attention to Stephen.At this time, he asked Stephen directly: "What's your last name?" At this moment Mr. Bloom touched lightly his companion's boots, but Stephen evidently ignored the mild pressure from an unexpected direction, and replied: "Dedalus." The sailor stared dully at Stephen with sleepy, sagging eyes.The sailor's eyeballs were swollen from drinking too much, especially schnapps-and-water. "Do you know Simon Dedalus?" he asked after a while. "I've heard of it," said Stephen. Mr. Bloom was momentarily bewildered by the apparent eavesdropping of the others. "He's an Irishman," said the sailor, still staring, and nodding his head, firmly, "a real Irishman." "Ireland has gone too far," remarked Stephen. As for Mr. Bloom, he couldn't make sense of the whole conversation.While he was wondering what the connection between the question and the answer was, the sailor spontaneously turned to the others in the shed and said: "I've seen him over his shoulder shoot two eggs off a bottle fifty yards away. Left-handed, but he hits every shot." Although he stammered from time to time, resulting in brief pauses in speech and clumsy gestures, he managed to explain clearly. "Here, there's the bottle over there, a good fifty yards away. Eggs on top of the bottle. Hold the gun over your shoulder and pull the trigger. Take aim." He turned his body sideways, closed his right eye tightly, his face was slightly distorted, and then stared at the darkness of the night with an unpleasant expression. "Bang!" he yelled. The audience was all waiting, expecting another shot, because there was still an egg. "Bang!" Sure enough, he yelled again. The second egg was evidently also broken[49], and he nodded, winked, and said viciously: buffalo bill killer, A sharpshooter with a hundred shots and a hundred shots. Then there was a silence.Mr. Bloom, out of politeness, thought it right to ask him if he was going to take part in a shooting match like at Beesley? "Excuse me, what did you say?" said the sailor. "It was a long time ago?" asked Mr. Bloom impatiently. "Well," replied the sailor, somewhat relieved by this confrontation of hard words, "about ten years ago. He traveled the world with the Hungler Royal Circus. I was in Stockholm. I've seen him do it." "Fantastic coincidence," whispered Mr. Bloom to Stephen veiledly. "My name is Murphy," continued the sailor, "and my name is W. B. Murphy, from Caligal. Do you know where it is?" "The port of Queenstown," Stephen replied. "True," said the sailor, "Fort Camden and Fort Carlisle. That's where I was born. My little girl's there. She's waiting for me. I know it. For England, for homeland And beauty.[54] She is my own wife, and I am always at sea, and I haven't seen her for seven years." Mr. Bloom could have no difficulty in imagining the scene of his emergence: back in the sailor's homestead by the roadside, after escaping from the clutches of the siren.It was a night when a rain was brewing, and the moon was dim[56].For my wife, across the world.There are quite a few stories on this particular subject of Alice C. Boulter.Enoch Arden[58] and Tump van Wenger.Does anyone here remember Blind O'Leary[59]?That, by the way, is poor John Cayce's beloved but poignant, sonorous, well-constructed little poem.No matter how faithful a wife has been to a go-away, once she runs away with someone, she never comes back.The face at the window!Think about how heartbreaking it must be to come home and learn the horrific truth about your beloved wife when your relationship is on the rocks!You never thought I'd come back, but I'm staying here, playing the drums and starting again.The widowed wife sat by the same hearth as before.She believed me to be dead, to sit in a cradle[61] in the depths of the sea.Uncle Fool, or Uncle Tomkins, proprietor of The Crown and Anchor, in a casual shirt, munching on a rump steak with onions.There was no chair for Dad to sit on.Pooh!It's windy!What she holds in her lap is a newborn baby, a posthumous child[62].High high!Randy, oh!My Dandy who rides the waves, oh[63]!This is unavoidable, so I can only submit, and bear with it with a wry smile.I will always and forever love you passionately, your heartbroken husband, W. B. Murphy. The sailor, who hardly looked like a Dublin resident, turned to a coachman and begged: "Have you any spare tobacco with you?" The driver who was called did not happen to have one, but the proprietor took out a dice-sized piece of cigarette from a smart jacket hanging on a nail, and the customers passed it to him. "Thank you," said the sailor. He stuffed a mouthful into his mouth and stammered slightly while chewing: "We came in at eleven o'clock this morning. It was the schooner Rosway, which brought bricks from Bridgewater. I took the boat to come here. Ship. Paid this afternoon and fired. You see, here's my discharge certificate. W. B. Murphy, First Seaman." To confirm this, he took out a dirty-looking folded certificate from his inner pocket, and handed it to the person beside him. "You must have a lot of knowledge," said the boss, leaning on the counter. "No," replied the sailor, "in retrospect, I've sailed around the globe a bit since I was aboard a ship. I've been to the Red Sea. I've been to China and North and South America. I've seen many icebergs, and small Icebergs. I've been to Stockholm, the Black Sea, and the Dardanelles. I've worked under Dalton, who's a shipwreck like no other. I've seen Russia. Gossbaldi Pommelui. That's how the Russians pray." "Needless to say, you must have seen quite a few curious things," interposed a coachman. "Of course," said the sailor, moving his half-chewed tobacco, "I've seen queer things, too, amusing and terrible. I've seen crocodiles nibble anchor hooks as I chew this Like a piece of tobacco." He took out the softened cigarette from his mouth, stuffed it between his teeth, and took a hard bite. "Crunch! Like this. I saw cannibals in Peru eating dead bodies and horse livers. Look at this. That's them. A friend of mine sent it to me." He fumbled around in his inner pocket, which seemed to be a kind of warehouse, and took out a postcard with pictures, and pushed it across the table.It reads: Beni, Bolivia, Indian huts. [66] Everyone focused on the picture shown to them: a group of savage women with striped cloth around their waists, squatting in front of primitive wicker shacks, surrounded by groups of dolls (there were a dozen or so) Down, blinking, letting the doll hold its breast, frowning and dozing off. "They chew coca leaves all day long," added the garrulous sailor, "and their stomachs are like grinders. When they can't have babies anymore, they cut off their breasts. I've seen them naked. Eat the liver of a dead horse alive." For several minutes his postcards were the center of attention of these unsuspecting gentlemen.