The three students halted round the box on which Davin sat to follow the game. Temple, after a few moments, sidled across to Stephen and said: —Excuse me, I wanted to ask you, do you believe that Jean Jacques Rousseau was a sincere man? Stephen laughed outright. Cranly, picking up the broken stave of a cask from the grass at his feet, turned swiftly and said sternly: —Temple, I declare to the living God if you say another word, do you know, to anybody on any subject, I’ll kill you _super spottum._ —He was like you, I fancy, said Stephen, an emotional man. —Blast him, curse him! said Cranly broadly. Don’t talk to him at all. Sure, you might as well be talking, do you know, to a flaming chamberpot as talking to Temple. Go home, Temple. For God’s sake, go home. —I don’t care a damn about you, Cranly, answered Temple, moving out of reach of the uplifted stave and pointing at Stephen. He’s the only man I see in this institution that has an individual mind. —Institution! Individual! cried Cranly. Go home, blast you, for you’re a hopeless bloody man. —I’m an emotional man, said Temple. That’s quite rightly expressed. And I’m proud that I’m an emotionalist. He sidled out of the alley, smiling slily. Cranly watched him with a blank expressionless face. —Look at him! he said. Did you ever see such a go-by-the-wall? His phrase was greeted by a strange laugh from a student who lounged against the wall, his peaked cap down on his eyes. The laugh, pitched in a high key and coming from a so muscular frame, seemed like the whinny of an elephant. The student’s body shook all over and, to ease his mirth, he rubbed both his hands delightedly over his groins. —Lynch is awake, said Cranly. Lynch, for answer, straightened himself and thrust forward his chest. —Lynch puts out his chest, said Stephen, as a criticism of life. Lynch smote himself sonorously on the chest and said: —Who has anything to say about my girth? Cranly took him at the word and the two began to tussle. When their faces had flushed with the struggle they drew apart, panting. Stephen bent down towards Davin who, intent on the game, had paid no heed to the talk of the others. —And how is my little tame goose? he asked. Did he sign, too? Davin nodded and said: —And you, Stevie? 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 hurleysticks, said Stephen, and want the indispensable informer, tell me. I can find you a few in this college.