Page:A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (Huebsch 1916).djvu/242

 content, while Cranly repeated flatly at every rude shake:

—A flaming flaring bloody idiot!—

They crossed the weedy garden together. The president, wrapped in a heavy loose cloak, was coming towards them along one of the walks, reading his office. At the end of the walk he halted before turning and raised his eyes. The students saluted, Temple fumbling as before at the peak of his cap. They walked forward in silence. As they neared the alley Stephen could hear the thuds of the players' hands and the wet smacks of the ball and Davin's voice crying out excitedly at each stroke.

The three students halted round the box on which Davin sat to follow the game. Temple, after a few moments, sidled across to Stephen and said:

—Excuse me, I wanted to ask you do you believe that Jean Jacques Rousseau was a sincere man?—

Stephen laughed outright. Cranly, picking up the broken stave of a cask from the grass at his feet, turned swiftly and said sternly:

—Temple, I declare to the living God if you say another word, do you know, to anybody on any subject, I'll kill you super spottum.—

—He was like you, I fancy—said Stephen—an emotional man.—

—Blast him, curse him!—said Cranly broadly.—Don't talk to him at all. Sure, you might as well be talking, do you know, to a flaming chamberpot as talking to Temple. Go home, Temple. For God's sake, go home.—

—I don't care a damn about you, Cranly—answered Temple, moving out of reach of the uplifted stave and