Портрет художника в юності
Chapter 1
—Thestoryisveryshortandsweet,MrCaseysaid.ItwasonedaydowninArklow,acoldbitterday,notlongbeforethechiefdied.MayGodhavemercyonhim!
Heclosedhiseyeswearilyandpaused.MrDedalustookabonefromhisplateandtoresomemeatfromitwithhisteeth,saying:
—Beforehewaskilled,youmean.
MrCaseyopenedhiseyes,sighedandwenton:
—ItwasdowninArklowoneday.Weweredownthereatameetingandafterthemeetingwasoverwehadtomakeourwaytotherailwaystationthroughthecrowd.Suchbooingandbaaing,man,youneverheard.Theycalledusallthenamesintheworld.Welltherewasoneoldlady,andadrunkenoldharridanshewassurely,thatpaidallherattentiontome.Shekeptdancingalongbesidemeinthemudbawlingandscreamingintomyface:PRIEST-HUNTER!THEPARISFUNDS!MRFOX!KITTYO’SHEA!
—Andwhatdidyoudo,John?askedMrDedalus.
—Iletherbawlaway,saidMrCasey.ItwasacolddayandtokeepupmyheartIhad(savingyourpresence,ma’am)aquidofTullamoreinmymouthandsureIcouldn’tsayawordinanycasebecausemymouthwasfulloftobaccojuice.
—Well,John?
—Well.Iletherbawlaway,toherheart’scontent,KITTYO’SHEAandtherestofittillatlastshecalledthatladyanamethatIwon’tsullythisChristmasboardnoryourears,ma’am,normyownlipsbyrepeating.
