Dubliners | Page 5

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 schoollife 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 firstcomer 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