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Updated: May 17, 2025
He leaned back in his chair, inclining his ear like that of a confessor to the face of the medical student who was reading to him a problem from the chess page of a journal. Cranly gazed after him blandly and vaguely. The medical student went on in a softer voice: Pawn to king's fourth. We had better go, Dixon, said Stephen in warning. He has gone to complain.
There are two nice young ladies upstairs, captain, tired of waiting, Dixon said. Cranly smiled and said kindly: The captain has only one love: sir Walter Scott. Isn't that so, captain? What are you reading now, captain? Dixon asked. I love old Scott, the flexible lips said, I think he writes something lovely. There is no writer can touch sir Walter Scott.
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?
But prompt ventilation of this allimportant question... Where Cranly led me to get rich quick, hunting his winners among the mudsplashed brakes, amid the bawls of bookies on their pitches and reek of the canteen, over the motley slush. Fair Rebel! Fair Rebel! Even money the favourite: ten to one the field.
Cranly pointed his long forefinger. Look at him! he said with scorn to the others. Look at Ireland's hope! They laughed at his words and gesture. Temple turned on him bravely, saying: Cranly, you're always sneering at me. I can see that. But I am as good as you any day. Do you know what I think about you now as compared with myself?
They were secret and inflaming but her image was not entangled by them. That was not the way to think of her. It was not even the way in which he thought of her. Could his mind then not trust itself? Old phrases, sweet only with a disinterred sweetness like the figseeds Cranly rooted out of his gleaming teeth.
I see, Cranly said. Stephen, struck by his tone of closure, reopened the discussion at once by saying: I fear many things: dogs, horses, fire-arms, the sea, thunder-storms, machinery, the country roads at night. But why do you fear a bit of bread? I imagine, Stephen said, that there is a malevolent reality behind those things I say I fear.
A lean student with olive skin and lank black hair thrust his face between the two, glancing from one to the other at each phrase and seeming to try to catch each flying phrase in his open moist mouth. Cranly took a small grey handball from his pocket and began to examine it closely, turning it over and over. Next business? said MacCann. Hom!
Pascal was a pig, said Cranly. Aloysius Gonzaga, I think, was of the same mind, Stephen said. And he was another pig then, said Cranly. The church calls him a saint, Stephen objected. I don't care a flaming damn what anyone calls him, Cranly said rudely and flatly. I call him a pig.
But in a moment his sadness left him and he was hotly disputing with Cranly and the two players who had finished their game. A match of four was arranged, Cranly insisting, however, that his ball should be used. He let it rebound twice or thrice to his hand and struck it strongly and swiftly towards the base of the alley, exclaiming in answer to its thud: Your soul!
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