felt against his neck the raw edge of his turned and jagged collar.

A short loud laugh from Mr Tate set the class more at ease.

--Perhaps you didn't know that, he said.

--Where? asked Stephen.

Mr Tate withdrew his delving hand and spread out the essay.

--Here. It's about the Creator and the soul. Rrm...rrm...rrm...Ah! WITHOUT A
POSSIBILITY OF EVER APPROACHING NEARER. That's heresy.

Stephen murmured:

--I meant WITHOUT A POSSIBILITY OF EVER REACHING.

It was a submission and Mr Tate, appeased, folded up the essay and
passed it across to him, saying:

--O...Ah! EVER REACHING. That's another story.

But the class was not so soon appeased. Though nobody spoke to him of
the affair after class he could feel about him a vague general
malignant joy.

A few nights after this public chiding he was walking with a letter
along the Drumcondra Road when he heard a voice cry:

--Halt!