Under the upswelling tide he saw the writhing weeds lift languidly and sway reluctant arms, hising up their petticoats, in whispering water swaying and upturning coy silver fronds.
Or through M’Coy.
—Just keeping alive, M’Coy said.
—I must try to get out there, M’Coy said.
He moved a little to the side of M’Coy’s talking head.
—One of the best, M’Coy said.
M’Coy’s changed voice said.
M’Coy nodded, picking at his moustache stubble.
—Tell you what, M’Coy said.
—Right, M’Coy said brightly.
Show more again
Just C. P. M’Coy will do.
Wish I hadn’t met that M’Coy fellow.
I might have tried to work M’Coy for a pass to Mullingar.
—I met M’Coy this morning, Mr Bloom said.
And you might put down M’Coy’s name too.
On his annual bend, M Coy said.
—Goodnight, M’Coy said abruptly.
He followed M’Coy out across the tiny square of Crampton court.
Going down the path of Sycamore street beside the Empire musichall Lenehan showed M’Coy how the whole thing was.
M’Coy peered into Marcus Tertius Moses’ sombre office, then at O’Neill’s clock.
While he waited in Temple bar M’Coy dodged a banana peel with gentle pushes of his toe from the path to the gutter.
—Wonder what he’s buying, M’Coy said, glancing behind.
—He’s dead nuts on sales, M’Coy said.
M’Coy’s white face smiled about it at instants and grew grave.
He glanced sideways in the sunlight at M’Coy.
On Grattan bridge Lenehan and M’Coy, taking leave of each other, watched the carriages go by.
—I know, M’Coy broke in.
I saw to that, M’Coy.
—I know, M’Coy said.
—I know, M’Coy said.
—Afterwits, miss Douce promised coyly.
She draws from behind, ogling, and shows coyly her bloodied clout.
That gouger M’Coy stopping me to say nothing.
He is a rather quaint fellow on the whole, coy though not feebleminded in the medical sense.
THE NYMPH: (Coyly, through parting fingers) There?
J. Lambert, Cornelius T. Kelleher, Joseph M’C Hynes, L. Boom, CP M’Coy,—M’lntosh and several others.
Not, of course, with a hole and corner scratch company or local ladies on the job, witness Mrs C P M’Coy type lend me your valise and I’ll post you the ticket.
Nettled not a little by L. Boom (as it incorrectly stated) and the line of bitched type but tickled to death simultaneously by C. P. M’Coy and Stephen Dedalus B. A. who were conspicuous, needless to say, by their total absence (to say nothing of M’Intosh) L. Boom pointed it out to his companion B. A. engaged in stifling another yawn, half nervousness, not forgetting the usual crop of nonsensical howlers of misprints.
…d’Arcy, Joe Hynes, red Murray, editor Brayden, T. M. Healy, Mr Justice Fitzgibbon, John Howard Parnell, the reverend Tinned Salmon, Professor Joly, Mrs Breen, Denis Breen, Theodore Purefoy, Mina Purefoy, the Westland Row postmistress, C. P. M’Coy, friend of Lyons, Hoppy Holohan, maninthestreet, othermaninthestreet, Footballboots, pugnosed driver, rich protestant lady, Davy Byrne, Mrs Ellen M’Guinness, Mrs Joe Gallaher, George Lidwell, Jimmy Henry on corns, Superintendent Laracy, Father…
(A panel of fog rolls back rapidly, revealing rapidly in the jurybox the faces of Martin Cunningham, foreman, silkhatted, Jack Power, Simon Dedalus, Tom Kernan, Ned Lambert, John Henry Menton Myles Crawford, Lenehan, Paddy Leonard, Nosey Flynn, M’Coy and the featureless face of a Nameless One.