—Do you feel how profound that is because you are a poet?—
Cranly pointed his long forefinger.
—Look at him!—he said with scorn to the others—Look at Ireland’s hope!—
They laughed at his words and gesture. Temple turned on him bravely, saying:
—Cranly, you’re always sneering at me. I can seen that. But I am as good as you any day. Do you know what I think about you now as compared with myself?—
—My dear man—said Cranly urbanely—you are incapable, do you know, absolutely incapable of thinking.—
—But do you know—Temple went on—what I think of you and of myself compared together?—
—Out with it, Temple!—the stout student cried from the steps.—Get it out in bits!—
Temple turned right and left, making sudden feeble gestures as he spoke.
—I’m a ballocks—he said, shaking his head in despair—I am and I know am. And I admit it that I am.—
Dixon patted him lightly on the shoulder and said mildly:
—And it does you every credit, Temple.—
—But he—Temple said, pointing to Cranly—he is a ballocks, too, like me. Only he doesn’t know it. And that’s the only difference, I see.—
A burst of laughter covered his words. But he turned again to Stephen and said with a sudden eagerness:
—That word is a most interesting word. That’s the only English dual number. Did you know?—
—Is it?—Stephen said vaguely.
[272]
