Stephen shook his head.—You're a terrible man, Stevie—said Davin, taking the short pipe from his mouth—always alone.—
—Now that you have signed the petition for universal peace—said Stephen—I suppose you will burn that little copybook I saw in your room.—
As Davin did not answer, Stephen began to quote:
—Long pace, fianna! Right incline, fianna! Fianna, by numbers, salute, one, two!—
—That's a different question—said Davin.—I'm an Irish nationalist, first and foremost. But that's you all out. You're a born sneerer, Stevie.—
—When you make the next rebellion with hurley-sticks—said Stephen—and want the indispensable informer, tell me. I can find you a few in this college.—
—I can't understand you—said Davin.—One time I hear you talk against English literature. Now you talk against the Irish informers. What with your name and your ideas . . . are you Irish at all?—
—Come with me now to the office of arms and I will show you the tree of my family—said Stephen.
—Then be one of us—said Davin.—Why don't you learn Irish? Why did you drop out of the league class after the first lesson?—
—You know one reason why—answered Stephen.
Davin tossed his head and laughed.
—Oh, come now—he said.—Is it on account of that certain young lady and Father Moran? But that's all in your own mind, Stevie. They were only talking and laughing.—
Stephen paused and laid a friendly hand upon Davin's shoulder.
—Do you remember—he said—when we knew each
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