Портрет художника в юности

           Stephenmurmured:

           —ImeantWITHOUTAPOSSIBILITYOFEVERREACHING.

           ItwasasubmissionandMrTate,appeased,foldeduptheessayandpasseditacrosstohim,saying:

           —OAh!EVERREACHING.That’sanotherstory.

           Buttheclasswasnotsosoonappeased.Thoughnobodyspoketohimoftheaffairafterclasshecouldfeelabouthimavaguegeneralmalignantjoy.

           AfewnightsafterthispublicchidinghewaswalkingwithaletteralongtheDrumcondraRoadwhenheheardavoicecry:

           —Halt!

           Heturnedandsawthreeboysofhisownclasscomingtowardshiminthedusk.ItwasHeronwhohadcalledoutand,ashemarchedforwardbetweenhistwoattendants,heclefttheairbeforehimwithathincaneintimetotheirsteps.Boland,hisfriend,marchedbesidehim,alargegrinonhisface,whileNashcameonafewstepsbehind,blowingfromthepaceandwagginghisgreatredhead.

           AssoonastheboyshadturnedintoClonliffeRoadtogethertheybegantospeakaboutbooksandwriters,sayingwhatbookstheywerereadingandhowmanybookstherewereintheirfathers’bookcasesathome.StephenlistenedtotheminsomewondermentforBolandwasthedunceandNashtheidleroftheclass.Infact,aftersometalkabouttheirfavouritewriters,NashdeclaredforCaptainMarryatwho,hesaid,wasthegreatestwriter.

           —Fudge!saidHeron.AskDedalus.