Портрет художника в юности

           Thefellowsseemedtohimtohavegrownsmaller:thatwasbecauseasprinterhadknockedhimdownthedaybefore,afellowoutofsecondofgrammar.Hehadbeenthrownbythefellow’smachinelightlyonthecinderpathandhisspectacleshadbeenbrokeninthreepiecesandsomeofthegritofthecindershadgoneIntohismouth.

           Thatwaswhythefellowsseemedtohimsmallerandfartherawayandthegoalpostssothinandfarandthesoftgreyskysohighup.Buttherewasnoplayonthefootballgroundsforcricketwascoming:andsomesaidthatBarneswouldbeprofandsomesaiditwouldbeFlowers.Andallovertheplaygroundstheywereplayingroundersandbowlingtwistersandlobs.Andfromhereandfromtherecamethesoundsofthecricketbatsthroughthesoftgreyair.Theysaid:pick,pack,pock,puck:littledropsofwaterinafountainslowlyfallinginthebrimmingbowl.

           Athy,whohadbeensilent,saidquietly:

           —Youareallwrong.

           Allturnedtowardshimeagerly.

           —Why?

           —Doyouknow?

           —Whotoldyou?

           —Tellus,Athy.

           AthypointedacrosstheplaygroundtowhereSimonMoonanwaswalkingbyhimselfkickingastonebeforehim.

           —Askhim,hesaid.