But poor James was so

nervous, God be merciful to him!"


"And was that it?" said my aunt. "I heard something...."


Eliza nodded.


"That affected his mind," she said. "After that he began to mope by

himself, talking to no one and wandering about by himself. So one

night he was wanted for to go on a call and they couldn't find him

anywhere. They looked high up and low down; and still they

couldn't see a sight of him anywhere. So then the clerk suggested

to try the chapel. So then they got the keys and opened the chapel

and the clerk and Father O'Rourke and another priest that was

there brought in a light for to look for him.... And what do you

think but there he was, sitting up by himself in the dark in his

confession-box, wide- awake and laughing-like softly to himself?"


She stopped suddenly as if to listen. I too listened; but there was

no sound in the house: and I knew that the old priest was lying still

in his coffin as we had seen him, solemn and truculent in death, an

idle chalice on his breast.


Eliza resumed:


"Wide-awake and laughing-like to himself.... So then, of course,

when they saw that, that made them think that there was something

gone wrong with him...."


AN ENCOUNTER


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.