Outside the brothel, Stephen collapsed on the street. Two British soldiers approached, looking for trouble. They accused Stephen of insulting their king and prepared to beat him. Bloom intervened, using his wits to defuse the situation.
"He's drunk," Bloom explained calmly. "He doesn't know what he's saying. I'll take him home."
The soldiers were unconvinced, their fists clenched and ready. But Bloom's reasonable manner and obvious concern for Stephen gave them pause. They muttered threats and warnings before moving on, seeking easier targets for their aggression.
Bloom helped Stephen to his feet, checking for injuries. The young man was bruised and dazed, barely conscious. His wallet was missing, probably stolen in the brothel or picked from his pocket on the street.
A vision of Rudy appeared to Bloom, his dead son as he would have been at eleven years old. The boy was beautiful, perfect, reading a book in Hebrew. Bloom's heart ached with love and loss. For a moment, Stephen and Rudy merged in his mind, the living and the dead becoming one.
The vision faded, leaving Bloom alone with the unconscious Stephen. He had to get the young man somewhere safe, somewhere he could recover. But where? Stephen had no money, and Bloom didn't know where he lived.
A cab passed, and Bloom considered hailing it. But the expense would be significant, and he wasn't sure Stephen could afford to repay him. Still, what choice did he have? He couldn't leave the young man lying in the street.
Bloom made his decision. He would take Stephen to his own home, would give him shelter for the night. It was the decent thing to do, the human thing.