Дублинцы
An Encounter
InthemorningIwasfirstcomertothebridgeasIlivednearest.Ihidmybooksinthelonggrassneartheashpitattheendofthegardenwherenobodyevercameandhurriedalongthecanalbank.ItwasamildsunnymorninginthefirstweekofJune.IsatuponthecopingofthebridgeadmiringmyfrailcanvasshoeswhichIhaddiligentlypipeclayedovernightandwatchingthedocilehorsespullingatramloadofbusinesspeopleupthehill.Allthebranchesofthetalltreeswhichlinedthemallweregaywithlittlelightgreenleavesandthesunlightslantedthroughthemontothewater.ThegranitestoneofthebridgewasbeginningtobewarmandIbegantopatitwithmyhandsintimetoanairinmyhead.Iwasveryhappy.
WhenIhadbeensittingthereforfiveortenminutesIsawMahony’sgreysuitapproaching.Hecameupthehill,smiling,andclamberedupbesidemeonthebridge.Whilewewerewaitinghebroughtoutthecatapultwhichbulgedfromhisinnerpocketandexplainedsomeimprovementswhichhehadmadeinit.Iaskedhimwhyhehadbroughtitandhetoldmehehadbroughtittohavesomegaswiththebirds.Mahonyusedslangfreely,andspokeofFatherButlerasOldBunser.WewaitedonforaquarterofanhourmorebutstilltherewasnosignofLeoDillon.Mahony,atlast,jumpeddownandsaid:
“Comealong.IknewFatty’dfunkit.”
“Andhissixpence...?”Isaid.
“That’sforfeit,”saidMahony.
