He dried the page with a sheet of thin blottingpaper and carried his copybook back to his bench.

You had better get your stick and go out to the others, Stephen said as he followed towards the door the boy’s graceless form.

Yes, sir.

In the corridor his name was heard, called from the playfield.

Sargent!

Run on, Stephen said. Mr Deasy is calling you.

He stood in the porch and watched the laggard hurry towards the scrappy field where sharp voices were in strife. They were sorted in teams and Mr Deasy came away stepping over wisps of grass with gaitered feet. When he had reached the schoolhouse voices again contending called to him. He turned his angry white moustache.