Sunday, 2 June 2013

----I don't care what he was, cried Stephen hotly.

----You don't care whether he was a heretic or not? said Nash.

----What do you know about it? shouted Stephen. You never read a line of anything in your life except a trans or Boland either.

----I know that Byron was a bad man, said Bolan.

----Here, catch hold of this heretic, Heron called out.

In a moment Stephen was a prisoner.

----Tate made you buck up the other day, Heron went on, about the heresy in your essay.

----I'll tell him tomorrow, said Boland.

----Will you? said Stephen. You'd be afraid to open your lips.


----Ay. Afraid of your life.

----Behave yourself! cried Heron, cutting at Stephen's legs with his cane.

It was the signal for their onset. Nash pinioned his arms behind while Boland seized a long cabbage stump which was lying in the gutter. Struggling and kicking under the cuts of the cane and the blows of the knotty stump Stephen was borne back against a barbed wire fence.

----Admit that Byron was no good.





----No. No.

At last after a fury of plunges he wrenched himself free. His tormentors set off towards Jones's Road, laughing and jeering at him, while he, torn and flushed and panting, stumbled after them half blinded with tears, clenching his fists madly and sobbing.

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