Fleming knelt down, squeezing his hands under his armpits, his face contorted with pain; but Stephen knew how hard his hands were because Fleming was always rubbing rosin into them. But perhaps he was in great pain for the noise of the pandybat was terrible. Stephen's heart was beating and fluttering.
— At your work, all of you! shouted the prefect of studies. We want no lazy idle loafers here, lazy idle little schemers. At your work, I tell you. Father Dolan will be in to see you every day. Father Dolan will be in tomorrow.
He poked one of the boys in the side with his pandybat, saying:
— You, boy! When will Father Dolan be in again?
— Tomorrow, sir, said Tom Furlong's voice.
— Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, said the prefect of studies. Make up your minds for that. Every day Father Dolan. Write away. You, boy, who are you?
Stephen's heart jumped suddenly.
— Dedalus, sir.
— Why are you not writing like the others?
— I . . . my . . .
He could not speak with fright.
— Why is he not writing, Father Arnall?
— He broke his glasses, said Father Arnall, and I exempted him from work.
— Broke? What is this I hear? What is this your name is! said the prefect of studies.
— Dedalus, sir.
— Out here, Dedalus. Lazy little schemer. I see schemer in your face. Where did you break your glasses?
