Page 248 - a-portrait-of-the-artist-as-a-young-man

—You flaming floundering fool! I’ll take my dying bible
there isn’t a bigger bloody ape, do you know, than you in the
whole flaming bloody world!
Temple wriggled in his grip, laughing still with sly con-
tent, 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 stu-
dents saluted, Temple fumbling as before at the peak of his
cap. They walked forward in silence. As they neared the al-
ley Stephen could hear the thuds of the players’ hands and
the wet smacks of the ball and Davin’s voice crying out ex-
citedly 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

248 A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man