CISSY CAFFREY: Yes, to go with him. And me with a soldier friend.
PRIVATE COMPTON: He doesn’t half want a thick ear, the blighter. Biff him one, Harry.
PRIVATE CARR: (To Cissy.) Was he insulting you while me and him was having a piss?
LORD TENNYSON: (Gentleman poet in Union Jack blazer and cricket flannels, bareheaded, flowingbearded.) Theirs not to reason why.
PRIVATE COMPTON: Biff him, Harry.
STEPHEN: (To Private Compton.) I don’t know your name but you are quite right. Doctor Swift says one man in armour will beat ten men in their shirts. Shirt is synechdoche. Part for the whole.
CISSY CAFFREY: (To the crowd.) No, I was with the privates.
STEPHEN: (Amiably.) Why not? The bold soldier boy. In my opinion every lady for example...
PRIVATE CARR: (His cap awry, advances to Stephen.) Say, how would it be, governor, if I was to bash in your jaw?
STEPHEN: (Looks up to the sky.) How? Very unpleasant. Noble art of selfpretence. Personally, I detest action. (He waves his hand.) Hand hurts me slightly. Enfin ce sont vos oignons. (To Cissy Caffrey.) Some trouble is on here. What is it precisely?