IT
WAS
Joe Dillon
who
introduced the Wild West
to
us.
He
had
a
little
library
made
up
of
old
numbers
of
The Union Jack, Pluck
and
The
Halfpenny
Marvel.
Every
evening
after
school
we
met
in
his
back
garden
and
arranged Indian battles.
He
and
his
fat
young
brother
Leo, the idler, held the loft
of
the
stable
while
we
tried
to
carry
it
by
storm;
or
we
fought
a
pitched
battle
on
the grass. But, however
well
we
fought,
we
never
won
siege
or
battle
and
all
our
bouts ended
with
Joe Dillon's
war
dance
of
victory.
His
parents went
to
eight-o'clock
mass
every
morning
in
Gardiner
Street
and
the peaceful
odour
of
Mrs. Dillon
was
prevalent
in
the
hall
of
the house. But
he
played
too
fiercely
for
us
who
were
younger
and
more
timid.
He
looked
like
some
kind
of
an Indian
when
he
capered round the garden, an
old
tea-cosy
on
his
head, beating
a
tin
with
his
fist
and
yelling: "Ya! yaka, yaka, yaka!" Everyone
was
incredulous
when
it
was
reported
that
he
had
a
vocation
for
the priesthood.
Nevertheless
it
was
true.
A
spirit
of
unruliness diffused
itself
among
us
and, under its influence, differences
of
culture
and
constitution
were
waived.
We
banded ourselves together,
some
boldly,
some
in
jest
and
some
almost
in
fear:
and
of
the
number
of
these
latter, the
reluctant
Indians
who
were
afraid
to
seem
studious
or
lacking
in
robustness, I
was
one. The adventures related
in
the
literature
of
the Wild West
were
remote
from
my
nature
but,
at
least,
they
opened doors
of
escape. I liked
better
some
American detective stories
which
were
traversed
from
time
to
time
by
unkempt
fierce
and
beautiful girls. Though there
was
nothing
wrong
in
these
stories
and
though
their
intention
was
sometimes
literary
they
were
circulated secretly
at
school.
One
day
when
Father
Butler
was
hearing the four pages
of
Roman
History
clumsy
Leo Dillon
was
discovered
with
a
copy
of
The
Halfpenny
Marvel. "This
page
or
this
page?
This
page
Now, Dillon, up! 'Hardly had the day'...
Go
on!
What
day? 'Hardly had the
day
dawned'...
Have
you
studied it?
What
have
you
there
in
your pocket?" Everyone's
heart
palpitated
as
Leo Dillon handed
up
the paper
and
everyone assumed an
innocent
face. Father
Butler
turned
over
the pages, frowning. "What
is
this
rubbish?"
he
said. "The Apache Chief!
Is
this
what
you
read
instead
of
studying your
Roman
History?
Let
me
not find
any
more
of
this
wretched
stuff
in
this
college. The
man
who
wrote it, I suppose,
was
some
wretched
fellow
who
writes
these
things
for
a
drink. I'm surprised
at
boys
like
you, educated,
reading
such
stuff. I
could
understand
it
if
you
were...
National
School
boys. Now, Dillon, I
advise
you
strongly,
get
at
your
work
or..."
This
rebuke
during
the sober hours
of
school
paled
much
of
the
glory
of
the Wild West
for
me
and
the
confused
puffy face
of
Leo Dillon awakened
one
of
my consciences. But
when
the restraining
influence
of
the
school
was
at
a
distance I began
to
hunger
again
for
wild sensations,
for
the
escape
which
those
chronicles
of
disorder alone seemed
to
offer
me. The
mimic
warfare
of
the
evening
became
at
last
as
wearisome
to
me
as
the
routine
of
school
in
the
morning
because
I wanted
real
adventures
to
happen
to
myself. But
real
adventures, I reflected,
do
not
happen
to
people
who
remain
at
home:
they
must
be
sought abroad. The
summer
holidays
were
near
at
hand
when
I
made
up
my
mind
to
break
out
of
the weariness
of
school-life
for
one
day
at
least.
With
Leo Dillon
and
a
boy
named Mahony I planned
a
day's miching.
Each
of
us
saved
up
sixpence.
We
were
to
meet
at
ten
in
the
morning
on
the
Canal
Bridge. Mahony's
big
sister
was
to
write
an
excuse
for
him
and
Leo Dillon
was
to
tell
his
brother
to
say
he
was
sick.
We
arranged
to
go
along
the
Wharf
Road
until
we
came
to
the ships,
then
to
cross
in
the ferryboat
and
walk
out
to
see
the
Pigeon
House. Leo Dillon
was
afraid
we
might
meet Father
Butler
or
someone
out
of
the college; but Mahony asked,
very
sensibly,
what
would Father
Butler
be
doing
out
at
the
Pigeon
House.
We
were
reassured:
and
I brought the first
stage
of
the
plot
to
an
end
by
collecting sixpence
from
the
other
two,
at
the
same
time
showing
them
my
own
sixpence.
When
we
were
making the
last
arrangements
on
the
eve
we
were
all vaguely excited.
We
shook hands, laughing,
and
Mahony said: "Till tomorrow, mates!"
That
night
I slept badly.
In
the
morning
I
was
first-comer
to
the
bridge
as
I lived nearest. I hid my books
in
the
long
grass
near
the ashpit
at
the
end
of
the
garden
where
nobody
ever
came
and
hurried
along
the
canal
bank.
It
was
a
mild
sunny
morning
in
the first
week
of
June. I sat
up
on
the coping
of
the
bridge
admiring my
frail
canvas
shoes
which
I had diligently pipeclayed overnight
and
watching the
docile
horses pulling
a
tramload
of
business
people
up
the hill. All the branches
of
the
tall
trees
which
lined the
mall
were
gay
with
little
light
green
leaves
and
the
sunlight
slanted through
them
on
to
the water. The
granite
stone
of
the
bridge
was
beginning
to
be
warm
and
I began
to
pat
it
with
my hands
in
time
to
an air
in
my head. I
was
very
happy.
When
I had been sitting there
for
five
or
ten
minutes
I
saw
Mahony's grey suit approaching.
He
came
up
the hill, smiling,
and
clambered
up
beside
me
on
the bridge.
While
we
were
waiting
he
brought
out
the catapult
which
bulged
from
his
inner
pocket
and
explained
some
improvements
which
he
had
made
in
it. I asked
him
why
he
had brought
it
and
he
told
me
he
had brought
it
to
have
some
gas
with
the birds. Mahony used
slang
freely,
and
spoke
of
Father
Butler
as
Old
Bunser.
We
waited
on
for
a
quarter
of
an
hour
more
but
still
there
was
no
sign
of
Leo Dillon. Mahony,
at
last, jumped
down
and
said: "Come along. I knew Fatty'd
funk
it." "And
his
sixpence...?" I said. "That's forfeit," said Mahony. "And
so
much
the
better
for
us—a
bob
and
a
tanner
instead
of
a
bob."
We
walked
along
the North
Strand
Road
till
we
came
to
the
Vitriol
Works
and
then
turned
to
the
right
along
the
Wharf
Road. Mahony began
to
play
the Indian
as
soon
as
we
were
out
of
public sight.
He
chased
a
crowd
of
ragged
girls, brandishing
his
unloaded catapult and,
when
two
ragged
boys began,
out
of
chivalry,
to
fling stones
at
us,
he
proposed
that
we
should
charge
them. I objected
that
the boys
were
too
small
and
so
we
walked on, the
ragged
troop screaming
after
us: "Swaddlers! Swaddlers!" thinking
that
we
were
Protestants
because
Mahony,
who
was
dark-complexioned, wore the
silver
badge
of
a
cricket
club
in
his
cap.
When
we
came
to
the Smoothing Iron
we
arranged
a
siege; but
it
was
a
failure
because
you
must
have
at
least
three.
We
revenged ourselves
on
Leo Dillon
by
saying
what
a
funk
he
was
and
guessing
how
many
he
would
get
at
three
o'clock
from
Mr. Ryan.
We
came
then
near
the river.
We
spent
a
long
time
walking
about
the noisy streets flanked
by
high
stone
walls, watching the working
of
cranes
and
engines
and
often
being shouted
at
for
our
immobility
by
the drivers
of
groaning
carts.
It
was
noon
when
we
reached the quays and,
as
all the labourers seemed
to
be
eating
their
lunches,
we
bought
two
big
currant
buns
and
sat
down
to
eat
them
on
some
metal
piping
beside
the river.
We
pleased ourselves
with
the
spectacle
of
Dublin's commerce—the barges signalled
from
far
away
by
their
curls
of
woolly smoke, the brown
fishing
fleet
beyond
Ringsend, the
big
white
sailing-vessel
which
was
being discharged
on
the
opposite
quay. Mahony said
it
would
be
right
skit
to
run
away
to
sea
on
one
of
those
big
ships
and
even
I, looking
at
the high masts, saw,
or
imagined, the
geography
which
had been scantily dosed
to
me
at
school
gradually taking
substance
under my eyes.
School
and
home
seemed
to
recede
from
us
and
their
influences
upon
us
seemed
to
wane.
We
crossed the Liffey
in
the ferryboat, paying
our
toll
to
be
transported
in
the
company
of
two
labourers
and
a
little
Jew
with
a
bag.
We
were
serious
to
the
point
of
solemnity, but
once
during
the
short
voyage
our
eyes met
and
we
laughed.
When
we
landed
we
watched the discharging
of
the graceful threemaster
which
we
had observed
from
the
other
quay.
Some
bystander said
that
she
was
a
Norwegian vessel. I went
to
the
stern
and
tried
to
decipher
the
legend
upon
it
but, failing
to
do
so, I came
back
and
examined the
foreign
sailors
to
see
had
any
of
them
green
eyes
for
I had
some
confused
notion.... The sailors' eyes
were
blue
and
grey
and
even
black. The
only
sailor
whose
eyes
could
have
been called
green
was
a
tall
man
who
amused the crowd
on
the
quay
by
calling
out
cheerfully
every
time
the planks fell: "All right! All right!"
When
we
were
tired
of
this
sight
we
wandered
slowly
into
Ringsend. The
day
had grown sultry,
and
in
the windows
of
the grocers' shops musty biscuits
lay
bleaching.
We
bought
some
biscuits
and
chocolate
which
we
ate sedulously
as
we
wandered through the
squalid
streets
where
the families
of
the fishermen live.
We
could
find no
dairy
and
so
we
went
into
a
huckster's shop
and
bought
a
bottle
of
raspberry
lemonade
each. Refreshed
by
this, Mahony chased
a
cat
down
a
lane, but the
cat
escaped
into
a
wide
field.
We
both felt
rather
tired
and
when
we
reached the
field
we
made
at
once
for
a
sloping
bank
over
the
ridge
of
which
we
could
see
the Dodder.
It
was
too
late
and
we
were
too
tired
to
carry
out
our
project
of
visiting the
Pigeon
House.
We
had
to
be
home
before four
o'clock
lest
our
adventure should
be
discovered. Mahony looked regretfully
at
his
catapult
and
I had
to
suggest
going
home
by
train
before
he
regained
any
cheerfulness. The
sun
went
in
behind
some
clouds
and
left
us
to
our
jaded thoughts
and
the crumbs
of
our
provisions. There
was
nobody
but ourselves
in
the field.
When
we
had lain
on
the
bank
for
some
time
without speaking I
saw
a
man
approaching
from
the
far
end
of
the field. I watched
him
lazily
as
I chewed
one
of
those
green
stems
on
which
girls
tell
fortunes.
He
came
along
by
the
bank
slowly.
He
walked
with
one
hand
upon
his
hip
and
in
the
other
hand
he
held
a
stick
with
which
he
tapped the turf lightly.
He
was
shabbily dressed
in
a
suit
of
greenish-black
and
wore
what
we
used
to
call
a
jerry
hat
with
a
high crown.
He
seemed
to
be
fairly
old
for
his
moustache
was
ashen-grey.
When
he
passed
at
our
feet
he
glanced
up
at
us
quickly
and
then
continued
his
way.
We
followed
him
with
our
eyes
and
saw
that
when
he
had gone
on
for
perhaps
fifty
paces
he
turned
about
and
began
to
retrace
his
steps.
He
walked
towards
us
very
slowly,
always
tapping the ground
with
his
stick,
so
slowly
that
I
thought
he
was
looking
for
something
in
the grass.
He
stopped
when
he
came
level
with
us
and
bade
us
good-day.
We
answered
him
and
he
sat
down
beside
us
on
the slope
slowly
and
with
great
care.
He
began
to
talk
of
the weather,
saying
that
it
would
be
a
very
hot
summer
and
adding
that
the seasons had changed
greatly
since
he
was
a
boy—a
long
time
ago.
He
said
that
the happiest
time
of
one's
life
was
undoubtedly one's school-boy days
and
that
he
would
give
anything
to
be
young
again.
While
he
expressed
these
sentiments
which
bored
us
a
little
we
kept silent.
Then
he
began
to
talk
of
school
and
of
books.
He
asked
us
whether
we
had read the
poetry
of
Thomas Moore
or
the
works
of
Sir Walter Scott
and
Lord Lytton. I pretended
that
I had read
every
book
he
mentioned
so
that
in
the
end
he
said: "Ah, I
can
see
you
are
a
bookworm
like
myself. Now,"
he
added, pointing
to
Mahony
who
was
regarding
us
with
open
eyes, "he
is
different;
he
goes
in
for
games."
He
said
he
had all Sir Walter Scott's
works
and
all Lord Lytton's
works
at
home
and
never
tired
of
reading
them. "Of course,"
he
said, "there
were
some
of
Lord Lytton's
works
which
boys couldn't read." Mahony asked
why
couldn't boys read them—a
question
which
agitated
and
pained
me
because
I
was
afraid
the
man
would
think
I
was
as
stupid
as
Mahony. The man, however,
only
smiled. I
saw
that
he
had
great
gaps
in
his
mouth
between
his
yellow
teeth.
Then
he
asked
us
which
of
us
had the
most
sweethearts. Mahony mentioned
lightly
that
he
had
three
totties. The
man
asked
me
how
many
had I. I answered
that
I had none.
He
did
not
believe
me
and
said
he
was
sure
I
must
have
one. I
was
silent. "Tell us," said Mahony pertly
to
the man, "how
many
have
you
yourself?" The
man
smiled
as
before
and
said
that
when
he
was
our
age
he
had lots
of
sweethearts. "Every boy,"
he
said, "has
a
little
sweetheart."
His
attitude
on
this
point
struck
me
as
strangely liberal
in
a
man
of
his
age.
In
my
heart
I
thought
that
what
he
said
about
boys
and
sweethearts
was
reasonable. But I disliked the words
in
his
mouth
and
I wondered
why
he
shivered
once
or
twice
as
if
he
feared
something
or
felt
a
sudden
chill.
As
he
proceeded I noticed
that
his
accent
was
good.
He
began
to
speak
to
us
about
girls,
saying
what
nice
soft
hair
they
had
and
how
soft
their
hands
were
and
how
all girls
were
not
so
good
as
they
seemed
to
be
if
one
only
knew. There
was
nothing
he
liked,
he
said,
so
much
as
looking
at
a
nice
young
girl,
at
her
nice
white
hands
and
her beautiful
soft
hair.
He
gave
me
the
impression
that
he
was
repeating
something
which
he
had learned
by
heart
or
that, magnetised
by
some
words
of
his
own
speech,
his
mind
was
slowly
circling round
and
round
in
the
same
orbit.
At
times
he
spoke
as
if
he
were
simply alluding
to
some
fact
that
everybody knew,
and
at
times
he
lowered
his
voice
and
spoke
mysteriously
as
if
he
were
telling
us
something
secret
which
he
did
not
wish
others
to
overhear.
He
repeated
his
phrases
over
and
over
again, varying
them
and
surrounding
them
with
his
monotonous
voice. I continued
to
gaze
towards
the
foot
of
the slope, listening
to
him.
After
a
long
while
his
monologue
paused.
He
stood
up
slowly,
saying
that
he
had
to
leave
us
for
a
minute
or
so,
a
few
minutes, and, without changing the
direction
of
my gaze, I
saw
him
walking
slowly
away
from
us
towards
the
near
end
of
the field.
We
remained
silent
when
he
had gone.
After
a
silence
of
a
few
minutes
I heard Mahony exclaim: "I say!
Look
what
he's doing!"
As
I
neither
answered
nor
raised my eyes Mahony exclaimed again: "I say... He's
a
queer
old
josser!" "In
case
he
asks
us
for
our
names," I said, "let
you
be
Murphy
and
I'll
be
Smith."
We
said
nothing
further
to
each
other. I
was
still
considering
whether
I would
go
away
or
not
when
the
man
came
back
and
sat
down
beside
us
again.
Hardly
had
he
sat
down
when
Mahony, catching sight
of
the
cat
which
had escaped him, sprang
up
and
pursued her
across
the field. The
man
and
I watched the chase. The
cat
escaped
once
more
and
Mahony began
to
throw stones
at
the
wall
she
had escaladed. Desisting
from
this,
he
began
to
wander
about
the
far
end
of
the field, aimlessly.
After
an
interval
the
man
spoke
to
me.
He
said
that
my
friend
was
a
very
rough
boy
and
asked
did
he
get
whipped
often
at
school. I
was
going
to
reply indignantly
that
we
were
not
National
School
boys
to
be
whipped,
as
he
called it; but I remained silent.
He
began
to
speak
on
the
subject
of
chastising boys.
His
mind,
as
if
magnetised
again
by
his
speech, seemed
to
circle
slowly
round
and
round its
new
centre.
He
said
that
when
boys
were
that
kind
they
ought
to
be
whipped
and
well
whipped.
When
a
boy
was
rough
and
unruly there
was
nothing
would
do
him
any
good
but
a
good
sound
whipping.
A
slap
on
the
hand
or
a
box
on
the
ear
was
no good:
what
he
wanted
was
to
get
a
nice
warm
whipping. I
was
surprised
at
this
sentiment
and
involuntarily glanced
up
at
his
face.
As
I
did
so
I met the gaze
of
a
pair
of
bottle-green eyes peering
at
me
from
under
a
twitching forehead. I turned my eyes
away
again. The
man
continued
his
monologue.
He
seemed
to
have
forgotten
his
recent
liberalism.
He
said
that
if
ever
he
found
a
boy
talking
to
girls
or
having
a
girl
for
a
sweetheart
he
would
whip
him
and
whip
him;
and
that
would
teach
him
not
to
be
talking
to
girls.
And
if
a
boy
had
a
girl
for
a
sweetheart
and
told lies
about
it
then
he
would
give
him
such
a
whipping
as
no
boy
ever
got
in
this
world.
He
said
that
there
was
nothing
in
this
world
he
would
like
so
well
as
that.
He
described
to
me
how
he
would
whip
such
a
boy
as
if
he
were
unfolding
some
elaborate
mystery.
He
would
love
that,
he
said,
better
than
anything
in
this
world;
and
his
voice,
as
he
led
me
monotonously through the mystery, grew
almost
affectionate
and
seemed
to
plead
with
me
that
I should
understand
him. I waited
till
his
monologue
paused again.
Then
I stood
up
abruptly.
Lest
I should
betray
my
agitation
I delayed
a
few
moments pretending
to
fix
my
shoe
properly
and
then,
saying
that
I
was
obliged
to
go, I bade
him
good-day. I went
up
the slope calmly but my
heart
was
beating
quickly
with
fear
that
he
would
seize
me
by
the ankles.
When
I reached the
top
of
the slope I turned round and, without looking
at
him, called loudly
across
the field: "Murphy!" My voice had an
accent
of
forced
bravery
in
it
and
I
was
ashamed
of
my
paltry
stratagem. I had
to
call
the
name
again
before Mahony
saw
me
and
hallooed
in
answer.
How
my
heart
beat
as
he
came running
across
the
field
to
me!
He
ran
as
if
to
bring
me
aid.
And
I
was
penitent;
for
in
my
heart
I had
always
despised
him
a
little.