Улисс

           Talbotslidhisclosedbookintohissatchel.

           —HaveIheardall?Stephenasked.

           —Yes,sir.Hockeyatten,sir.

           —Halfday,sir.Thursday.

           —Whocananswerariddle?Stephenasked.

           Theybundledtheirbooksaway,pencilsclacking,pagesrustling.Crowdingtogethertheystrappedandbuckledtheirsatchels,allgabblinggaily:

           —Ariddle,sir?Askme,sir.

           —O,askme,sir.

           —Ahardone,sir.

           —Thisistheriddle,Stephensaid:

           Thecockcrew,

           Theskywasblue:

           Thebellsinheaven

           Werestrikingeleven.

           ’Tistimeforthispoorsoul

           Togotoheaven.

           Whatisthat?

           —What,sir?

           —Again,sir.Wedidn’thear.

           Theireyesgrewbiggerasthelineswererepeated.AfterasilenceCochranesaid:

           —Whatisit,sir?Wegiveitup.

           Stephen,histhroatitching,answered:

           —Thefoxburyinghisgrandmotherunderahollybush.

           Hestoodupandgaveashoutofnervouslaughtertowhichtheircriesechoeddismay.

           Astickstruckthedoorandavoiceinthecorridorcalled:

           —Hockey!

           Theybrokeasunder,sidlingoutoftheirbenches,leapingthem.Quicklytheyweregoneandfromthelumberroomcametherattleofsticksandclamouroftheirbootsandtongues.

           Sargentwhoalonehadlingeredcameforwardslowly,showinganopencopybook.Histangledhairandscraggyneckgavewitnessofunreadinessandthroughhismistyglassesweakeyeslookeduppleading.Onhischeek,dullandbloodless,asoftstainofinklay,dateshaped,recentanddampasasnail’sbed.

           Heheldouthiscopybook.ThewordSumswaswrittenontheheadline.Beneathwereslopingfiguresandatthefootacrookedsignaturewithblindloopsandablot.