Stephen did not look up. It was a raw spring
morning and his eyes were still smarting and weak. He was conscious of
failure and of detection, of the squalor of his own mind and home, and
felt against his neck the raw edge of his turned and jagged collar.
A short loud laugh from Mr Tate set the class more at ease.
--Perhaps you didn't know that, he said.
--Where? asked Stephen.
Mr Tate withdrew his delving hand and spread out the essay.
--Here. It's about the Creator and the soul. Rrm...rrm...rrm...Ah! WITHOUT A
POSSIBILITY OF EVER APPROACHING NEARER. That's heresy.
Stephen murmured:
--I meant WITHOUT A POSSIBILITY OF EVER REACHING.
It was a submission and Mr Tate, appeased, folded up the essay and
passed it across to him, saying:
--O...Ah! EVER REACHING. That's another story.
But the class was not so soon appeased. Though nobody spoke to him of
the affair after class he could feel about him a vague general
malignant joy.
A few nights after this public chiding he was walking with a letter
along the Drumcondra Road when he heard a voice cry:
--Halt!
He turned and saw three boys of his own class coming towards him in the
dusk. It was Heron who had called out and, as he marched forward
between his two attendants, he cleft the air before him with a thin
cane in time to their steps.
Pages:
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124