The bell whirred again as he rang off. He came in quickly and bumped
against Lenehan who was struggling up with the second tissue.
—_Pardon, monsieur_, Lenehan said, clutching him for an instant and
making a grimace.
—My fault, Mr Bloom said, suffering his grip. Are you hurt? I’m in a
hurry.
—Knee, Lenehan said.
He made a comic face and whined, rubbing his knee:
—The accumulation of the _anno Domini_.
—Sorry, Mr Bloom said.
He went to the door and, holding it ajar, paused. J. J. O’Molloy
slapped the heavy pages over. The noise of two shrill voices, a
mouthorgan, echoed in the bare hallway from the newsboys squatted on
the doorsteps:
We are the boys of Wexford
Who fought with heart and hand.