There was a noise of curtain-rings running back along the
rods， of water being splashed in the basins. There was a noise of
rising and dressing and washing in the dormitory: a noise of
clapping of hands as the prefect went up and down telling the
fellows to look sharp. A pale sunlight showed the yellow curtains
drawn back， the tossed beds. His bed was very hot and his face and
body were very hot.
He got up and sat on the side of his bed. He was weak. He tried
to pull on his stocking. It had a horrid rough feel. The sunlight
was queer and cold.
Fleming said:
-Are you not well?
He did not know; and Fleming said:
-Get back into bed. I''II tell McGlade you''re not well.
-He''s sick.
-Who is?
-Tell McGlade.
-Get back into bed.
-Is he sick?
A fellow held his arms while he loosened the stocking clinging to
his foot and climbed back into the hot bed.
He crouched down between the sheets， glad of their tepid glow. He
heard the fellows talk among themselves about him as they dressed
for mass. It was a mean thing to do， to shoulder him into the
square ditch， they were saying.
Then their voices ceased; they had gone. A voice at his bed said:
-Dedalus， don''t spy on us， sure you won''t?
Wells''s face was there. He looked at it and saw that Wells was
afraid.
-I didn''t mean to. Sure you won''t?
His father had told him， whatever he did， never to peach on a
fellow.
He shook his head and answered no and felt glad.
Wells said:I didn''t mean to， honour bright. It was only for cod.
I''m sorry The face and the voice went away Sorry because he was
afraid. Afraid that it was some disease. Canker was a disease of
plants and cancer one of animals: or another different. That was a
long time ago then out on the playgrounds in the evening light，
creeping from point to point on the fringe of his line， a heavy
bird flying low through the grey light. Leicester Abbeylit up.
Wolsey died there. The abbots buried him themselves.
It was not Wells''s face， it was the prefect''s. He was not foxing.
No， no: he was sick really He was not foxing. And he felt the
prefect''s hand on his forehead; and he felt his forehead warm and
damp against the prefect''s cold damp hand. That was the way a rat
felt， slimy and damp and cold.
Every rat had two eyes to look out of. Sleek slimy coats， little
little feet tucked up to jump， black slimy eyes to look out of.
They could understand how to jump. But the minds of rats could not
understand trigonometry When they were dead they lay on their
sides. Their coats dried then. They were only dead things.
The prefect was there again and it was his voice that was saying
that he was to get up， that Father Minister had said he was to get
up and dress and go to the infirmary And while he was dressing
himself as quickly as he could the prefect said: -We must pack off
to Brother Michael because we have the collywobbles!
He was very decent to say that. That was all to make him laugh.
But he could not laugh because his cheeks and lips were all
shivery: and then the prefect had to laugh by himself.
The prefect cried: uick march! Hayfoot! Strawfoot!
They went together down the staircase and along the corridor and
past the bath. As he passed the door he remembered with a vague
fear the warm turf-coloured bogwater， the warm moist air， the noise
of plunges， the smell of the towels， like medicine.
……
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