Ulysses page-by-page: Page 113 (7.26-60) "Just cut... dear one."

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— Just cut it out, will you? Mr Bloom said, and I'll take it round to the Telegraph office.

The door of Ruttledge's office creaked again. Davy Stephens, minute in a large capecoat, a small felt hat crowning his ringlets, passed out with a roll of papers under his cape, a king's courier.

Ellmann: "The cashier of the newspaper was a man named Ruttledge, who had a high, squeaky voice. On payday Ruttledge carried a money box around with him, paying out from office to office of the old building; and his coming was announced by the phrase, 'The ghost walks,' spoken in Ulysses by Professor MacHugh."

1911 (also 1901)

Davy Stephens

1901 (age '58') and 1911 (age '66')

Red Murray's long shears sliced out the advertisement from the newspaper in four clean strokes. Scissors and paste.

— I'll go through the printing works, Mr Bloom said, taking the cut square.

the printing works joined the two offices (like two lungs)

— Of course, if he wants a par, Red Murray said earnestly, a pen behind his ear, we can do him one.

— Right, Mr Bloom said with a nod. I'll rub that in.

We.

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WILLIAM BRAYDEN, ESQUIRE, OF OAKLANDS,
SANDYMOUNT

1901 and 1911

Red Murray touched Mr Bloom's arm with the shears and whispered:

— Brayden.

Mr Bloom turned and saw the liveried porter raise his lettered cap as a stately figure entered between the newsboards of the Weekly Freeman and National Press and the Freeman's Journal and National Press. Dullthudding Guinness's barrels. It passed stately up the staircase, steered by an umbrella, a solemn beardframed face. The broadcloth back ascended each step: back. All his brains are in the nape of his neck, Simon Dedalus says. Welts of flesh behind on him. Fat folds of neck, fat, neck, fat, neck.

newsboards

"between the newsboards"

Weekly Freeman and National Press = weekly edition
Freeman's Journal and National Press = daily edition

"All his brains are in the nape of his neck" = diasyrm?

— Don't you think his face is like Our Saviour? Red Murray whispered.

The door of Ruttledge's office whispered: ee: cree. They always build one door opposite another for the wind to. Way in. Way out.

Our Saviour: beardframed oval face: talking in the dusk. Mary, Martha. Steered by an umbrella sword to the footlights: Mario the tenor.

— Or like Mario, Mr Bloom said.

— Yes, Red Murray agreed. But Mario was said to be the picture of Our Saviour.