Page:A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (Huebsch 1916).djvu/243

 pointing at Stephen.—He's the only man I see in this institution that has an individual mind.—

—Institution! Individual!—cried Cranly.—Go home, blast you, for you're a hopeless bloody man.—

—I'm an emotional man—said Temple.—That's quite rightly expressed. And I'm proud that I'm an emotionalist.—

He sidled out of the alley, smiling slyly. Cranly watched him with a blank expressionless face.

—Look at him!—he said.—Did you ever see such a go-by-the-wall?—

His phrase was greeted by a strange laugh from a student who lounged against the wall, his peaked cap down on his eyes. The laugh, pitched in a high key and coming from a so muscular frame, seemed like the whinny of an elephant. The student's body shook all over and, to ease his mirth, he rubbed both his hands delightedly, over his groins.

—Lynch is awake—said Cranly.

Lynch, for answer, straightened himself and thrust forward his chest.

—Lynch puts out his chest—said Stephen—as a criticism of life.—

Lynch smote himself sonorously on the chest and said:

—Who has anything to say about my girth?—

Cranly took him at the word and the two began to tussle. When their faces had flushed with the struggle they drew apart, panting. Stephen bent down towards Davin who, intent on the game, had paid no heed to the talk of the others.

—And how is my little tame goose?—he asked.—Did he sign, too?—

David nodded and said:—And you, Stevie?—