Page 96 - a-portrait-of-the-artist-as-a-young-man

PROACHING NEARER. That’s heresy.
Stephen murmured:
—I meant WITHOUT A POSSIBILITY OF EVER
REACHING.
It was a submission and Mr Tate, appeased, folded up the
essay and passed it across to him, saying:
—O...Ah! EVER REACHING. That’s another story.
But the class was not so soon appeased. Though nobody
spoke to him of the affair after class he could feel about him
a vague general malignant joy.
A few nights after this public chiding he was walking
with a letter along the Drumcondra Road when he heard
a voice cry:
—Halt!
He turned and saw three boys of his own class coming
towards him in the dusk. It was Heron who had called out
and, as he marched forward between his two attendants, he
cleft the air before him with a thin cane in time to their
steps. Boland, his friend, marched beside him, a large grin
on his face, while Nash came on a few steps behind, blowing
from the pace and wagging his great red head.
As soon as the boys had turned into Clonliffe Road to-
gether they began to speak about books and writers, saying
what books they were reading and how many books there
were in their fathers’ bookcases at home. Stephen listened
to them in some wonderment for Boland was the dunce and
Nash the idler of the class. In fact, after some talk about
their favourite writers, Nash declared for Captain Marryat
who, he said, was the greatest writer.

96 A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man