--Do you know what limbo is? he cried. Do you know what we call a
notion like that in Roscommon?
--Hoosh! Blast you! Cranly cried, clapping his hands.
--Neither my arse nor my elbow! Temple cried out scornfully. And
that's what I call limbo.
--Give us that stick here, Cranly said.
He snatched the ashplant roughly from Stephen's hand and sprang down
the steps: but Temple, hearing him move in pursuit, fled through the
dusk like a wild creature, nimble and fleet-footed. Cranly's heavy
boots were heard loudly charging across the quadrangle and then
returning heavily, foiled and spurning the gravel at each step.
His step was angry and with an angry abrupt gesture he thrust the stick
back into Stephen's hand. Stephen felt that his anger had another cause
but, feigning patience, touched his arm slightly and said quietly:
--Cranly, I told you I wanted to speak to you. Come away.
Cranly looked at him for a few moments and asked:
--Now?
--Yes, now, Stephen said. We can't speak here. Come away.
They crossed the quadrangle together without speaking. The bird call
from SIEGFRIED whistled softly followed them from the steps of the
porch. Cranly turned, and Dixon, who had whistled, called out:
--Where are you fellows off to? What about that game, Cranly?
They parleyed in shouts across the still air about a game of billiards
to be played in the Adelphi hotel.
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