Портрет художника в юности

           MrCasey,freeinghisarmsfromhisholders,suddenlybowedhisheadonhishandswithasobofpain.

           —PoorParnell!hecriedloudly.Mydeadking!

           Hesobbedloudlyandbitterly.

           Stephen,raisinghisterror-strickenface,sawthathisfather’seyeswerefulloftears.

           ***

           Thefellowstalkedtogetherinlittlegroups.

           Onefellowsaid:

           —TheywerecaughtneartheHillofLyons.

           —Whocaughtthem?

           —MrGleesonandtheminister.Theywereonacar.Thesamefellowadded:

           —Afellowinthehigherlinetoldme.

           Flemingasked:

           —Butwhydidtheyrunaway,tellus?

           —Iknowwhy,CecilThundersaid.Becausetheyhadfeckedcashoutoftherector’sroom.

           —Whofeckedit?

           —Kickham’sbrother.Andtheyallwentsharesinit.

           —Butthatwasstealing.Howcouldtheyhavedonethat?

           —Afatlotyouknowaboutit,Thunder!Wellssaid.Iknowwhytheyscut.

           —Telluswhy.

           —Iwastoldnotto,Wellssaid.

           —O,goon,Wells,allsaid.Youmighttellus.Wewon’tletitout.

           Stephenbentforwardhisheadtohear.Wellslookedroundtoseeifanyonewascoming.