You are a reactionary, then? --Do you think you impress me, Stephen asked, when you flourish your wooden sword? --Metaphors! said MacCann bluntly. Fearing to lose all, he raised himself suddenly on his elbow to look for paper and pencil. He could not eat the blackish fish fritters they got on Wednesdays in lent and one of his potatoes had the mark of the spade in it. Then he had been sent away from home to a college, he had made his first communion and eaten slim jim out of his cricket cap and watched the firelight leaping and dancing on the wall of a little bedroom in the infirmary and dreamed of being dead, of mass being said for him by the rector in a black and gold cope, of being buried then in the little graveyard of the community off the main avenue of limes.