The Luck Of The Irish

This week's sentence was from James Joyce's 'Ulysses':
At this intelligence, in which he seemingly evinced little interest, Mr. Bloom gazed abstractedly for the space of a half a second or so in the direction of a bucketdredger, rejoicing in the farfamed name of Eblana, moored alongside Customhouse quay and quite possibly out of repair, whereupon he observed evasively: "Everybody gets their own ration of luck, they say."

The Luck Of The Irish

"As a dodo, Mister Bloom … as a veritable dodo. A very unlucky turn of events."

At this intelligence, in which he seemingly evinced little interest, Mr. Bloom gazed abstractedly for the space of a half a second or so in the direction of a bucketdredger, rejoicing in the farfamed name of Eblana, moored alongside Customhouse quay and quite possibly out of repair, whereupon he observed evasively:

"Everybody gets their own ration of luck, they say."

"Aye, so they do, Mister Bloom, so they do, but good or bad; there's the rub."

Bloom nodded, warily.
"She's a fickle mistress to be sure."

He waited for his companion to continue, contriving at the same time to glance with feigned nonchalance at the liner waiting beyond the Eblana; the liner bound for New York and new life.
The steward by the boarding ramp was checking his watch.

"Now take as an example our recently departed acquaintance Master Dædalus. Some might say that before she frowned so unmercifully, Lady Luck had cast her smiling countenance upon him."

"How so, Inspector?"

"It seems that, just prior to his untimely and tragic demise at the hand of person or persons unknown Master Dædalus had come into possession of what might be described as a very considerable fortune … a fortune that it appears has … disappeared.”

Bloom swallowed hard. Finding the Inspector waiting on the dock was shock enough, but now …

"Master Dædalus lies in the mortuary with his throat slit. His run of luck has, it seems run out.
Of course some folk contrive to make their own luck, do they not, Mister Bloom?”
He paused.

“Now that's a pretty heavy pair of suitcases you're toting. Would you be, by any chance, heading for that ocean liner? And would these cases be stuffed with Master Dædalus' missing money?
I think you should hand me your ticket and boarding pass, Mister Bloom. It's a different voyage you'll be making today."

The jig was up.
Or was it?
Reluctantly Bloom fished out his documents and handed them over.
At the same time he let the blade drop from his sleeve into his palm.
One stab was all he needed.
Yes, Inspector - he thought – Some people make their own luck …

Before he could act, however, out from the shadow of the Custom House stepped a uniformed policeman. The Inspector turned to him.

"Constable, would you be so kind as to place Mister Bloom under arrest."

Bloom panicked. He took a step backwards, and a second, then turned and fled for his life, the constable in hot pursuit.

The Inspector looked down at the heavy cases.
He looked at the boarding pass and ticket in his hand.
He paused for a moment’s contemplation, turning his face up to the rain.
It was always raining in Cork.

Aye, Mister Bloom, you have to make your own luck.

A purser checked his papers at the top of the boarding ramp.
"Welcome aboard the Titanic, Mister Bloom."