"Well, I tried it out on that assignment I had to cover--the directors of the Museum of Natural History. It worked out like this--When--last night. Where--the palatial apartment of Mr. Harold Denny at 605 Park avenue. What--the annual report of the directors of the Museum of Natural History. Why--God knows." Pat was busily engaged with three other men in a game called horse racing. Each contestant had two pool balls and all were lined up at one end of the table with a piece of board behind them. The starter's job rotated among the players. He sent the balls spinning up the table and the one which landed nearest to the rail on the rebound won the purse. Peter wanted to talk to Pat, but he seemed anxious to get away. "There's a newspaper man over in the corner that I'd like to have you meet," said Peter. "Who is it?" "His name's Heywood Broun. He's on the World." "Which one do you mean? The one with the shave?" "No, the other one." "I'm too busy," said Pat. "I can't be bothered. We're just going to run the Suburban Handicap, That costs fifty cents for each horse." As the balls were shoved away Pat raced down the table with them shouting, "Come on Ulysses. Come on James Joyce." He ran over to Peter with a handful of coins. "Ulysses won," he said, "and James Joyce was second." "What do you call them that for?" "They're named after a book I've been reading." Peter was about to head up town, but Pat urged him to stay. "Stick around awhile," he said, "as soon as Nick Carter shows up the quartette's going to have a concert." "What quartette?" "Oh just me and three other fellows. We're pretty good. At least I am. We get in a few swipes almost every night." "Are you still going to the opera so much?" asked Peter anxiously. "No, I haven't had any time. There isn't any opera now anyway but it's almost a year since I've been." "Have you heard from Maria lately?" "The last letter I got was almost six months ago. She didn't say anything much except she said that before long she was going to see me in Paris. I don't know how. You haven't heard Mr. Twice say anything about giving me an assignment over there, the annual meeting of the house committee of the Louvre or anything like that?" "He hasn't said anything to me about it." Peter didn't wait for the singing nor was he particularly worried about it. He was cheered by the fact that Pat had spoken so casually of the opera and of Maria. When he got home to the flat he noticed a big book in blue paper covers on the table. It was "Ulysses" by James Joyce. "Why, that's the book Pat named the pool balls after." He picked it up and began at the beginning and then skipped ahead frantically. An hour or so later Pat came in. Peter pointed to the book and looked at him reproachfully. "What does it mean, Pat?" he asked. Stumbling over it at random he read: