―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?