Make up your minds for that. Every day Father Dolan. Write away. You,
boy, who are you?
Stephen's heart jumped suddenly.
--Dedalus, sir.
--Why are you not writing like the others?
--I...my...
He could not speak with fright.
--Why is he not writing, Father Arnall?
--He broke his glasses, said Father Arnall, and I exempted him from
work.
--Broke? What is this I hear? What is this your name is! said the
prefect of studies.
--Dedalus, sir.
--Out here, Dedalus. Lazy little schemer. I see schemer in your face.
Where did you break your glasses?
Stephen stumbled into the middle of the class, blinded by fear and haste.
--Where did you break your glasses? repeated the prefect of studies.
--The cinder-path, sir.
--Hoho! The cinder-path! cried the prefect of studies. I know that trick.
Stephen lifted his eyes in wonder and saw for a moment Father Dolan's
white-grey not young face, his baldy white-grey head with fluff at the
sides of it, the steel rims of his spectacles and his no-coloured eyes
looking through the glasses. Why did he say he knew that trick?
--Lazy idle little loafer! cried the prefect of studies. Broke my
glasses! An old schoolboy trick! Out with your hand this moment!
Stephen closed his eyes and held out in the air his trembling hand with
the palm upwards.
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