AN ENCOUNTER

It was Joe Dillon who introduced the Wild West to us. He had a littlernlibrary made up of old numbers of _The Union Jack_, _Pluck_ and _ThernHalfpenny Marvel_. Every evening after school we met in his back gardenrnand arranged Indian battles. He and his fat young brother Leo, thernidler, held the loft of the stable while we tried to carry it by storm;rnor we fought a pitched battle on the grass. But, however well wernfought, we never won siege or battle and all our bouts ended with JoernDillon’s war dance of victory. His parents went to eight-o’clock massrnevery morning in Gardiner Street and the peaceful odour of Mrs Dillonrnwas prevalent in the hall of the house. But he played too fiercely forrnus who were younger and more timid. He looked like some kind of anrnIndian when he capered round the garden, an old tea-cosy on his head,rnbeating a tin with his fist and yelling:rnrn“Ya! yaka, yaka, yaka!”rnrnEveryone was incredulous when it was reported that he had a vocationrnfor the priesthood. Nevertheless it was true.rnrnA spirit of unruliness diffused itself among us and, under itsrninfluence, differences of culture and constitution were waived. Wernbanded ourselves together, some boldly, some in jest and some almost inrnfear: and of the number of these latter, the reluctant Indians who werernafraid to seem studious or lacking in robustness, I was one. Thernadventures related in the literature of the Wild West were remote fromrnmy nature but, at least, they opened doors of escape. I liked betterrnsome American detective stories which were traversed from time to timernby unkempt fierce and beautiful girls. Though there was nothing wrongrnin these stories and though their intention was sometimes literary theyrnwere circulated secretly at school. One day when Father Butler wasrnhearing the four pages of Roman History clumsy Leo Dillon wasrndiscovered with a copy of _The Halfpenny Marvel_.rnrn“This page or this page? This page? Now, Dillon, up! _‘Hardly had thernday’...._ Go on! What day? _‘Hardly had the day dawned’...._ Have yournstudied it? What have you there in your pocket?”rnrnEveryone’s heart palpitated as Leo Dillon handed up the paper andrneveryone assumed an innocent face. Father Butler turned over the pages,rnfrowning.rnrn“What is this rubbish?” he said. “_The Apache Chief!_ Is this what yournread instead of studying your Roman History? Let me not find any morernof this wretched stuff in this college. The man who wrote it, Irnsuppose, was some wretched fellow who writes these things for a drink.rnI’m surprised at boys like you, educated, reading such stuff. I couldrnunderstand it if you were ... National School boys. Now, Dillon, Irnadvise you strongly, get at your work or....”rnrnThis rebuke during the sober hours of school paled much of the glory ofrnthe Wild West for me and the confused puffy face of Leo Dillon awakenedrnone of my consciences. But when the restraining influence of the schoolrnwas at a distance I began to hunger again for wild sensations, for thernescape which those chronicles of disorder alone seemed to offer me. Thernmimic warfare of the evening became at last as wearisome to me as thernroutine of school in the morning because I wanted real adventures tornhappen to myself. But real adventures, I reflected, do not happen tornpeople who remain at home: they must be sought abroad.rnrnThe summer holidays were near at hand when I made up my mind to breakrnout of the weariness of school-life for one day at least. With LeornDillon and a boy named Mahony I planned a day’s miching. Each of usrnsaved up sixpence. We were to meet at ten in the morning on the CanalrnBridge. Mahony’s big sister was to write an excuse for him and LeornDillon was to tell his brother to say he was sick. We arranged to gornalong the Wharf Road until we came to the ships, then to cross in thernferryboat and walk out to see the Pigeon House. Leo Dillon was afraidrnwe might meet Father Butler or someone out of the college; but Mahonyrnasked, very sensibly, what would Father Butler be doing out at thernPigeon House. We were reassured: and I brought the first stage of thernplot to an end by collecting sixpence from the other two, at the samerntime showing them my own sixpence. When we were making the lastrnarrangements on the eve we were all vaguely excited. We shook hands,rnlaughing, and Mahony said:rnrn“Till tomorrow, mates!”rnrnThat night I slept badly. In the morning I was first-comer to thernbridge as I lived nearest. I hid my books in the long grass near thernashpit at the end of the garden where nobody ever came and hurriedrnalong the canal bank. It was a mild sunny morning in the first week ofrnJune. I sat up on the coping of the bridge admiring my frail canvasrnshoes which I had diligently pipeclayed overnight and watching therndocile horses pulling a tramload of business people up the hill. Allrnthe branches of the tall trees which lined the mall were gay withrnlittle light green leaves and the sunlight slanted through them on tornthe water. The granite stone of the bridge was beginning to be warm andrnI began to pat it with my hands in time to an air in my head. I wasrnvery happy.rnrnWhen I had been sitting there for five or ten minutes I saw Mahony’srngrey suit approaching. He came up the hill, smiling, and clambered uprnbeside me on the bridge. While we were waiting he brought out therncatapult which bulged from his inner pocket and explained somernimprovements which he had made in it. I asked him why he had brought itrnand he told me he had brought it to have some gas with the birds.rnMahony used slang freely, and spoke of Father Butler as Old Bunser. Wernwaited on for a quarter of an hour more but still there was no sign ofrnLeo Dillon. Mahony, at last, jumped down and said:rnrn“Come along. I knew Fatty’d funk it.”rnrn“And his sixpence...?” I said.rnrn“That’s forfeit,” said Mahony. “And so much the better for us—a bob andrna tanner instead of a bob.”rnrnWe walked along the North Strand Road till we came to the Vitriol Worksrnand then turned to the right along the Wharf Road. Mahony began to playrnthe Indian as soon as we were out of public sight. He chased a crowd ofrnragged girls, brandishing his unloaded catapult and, when two raggedrnboys began, out of chivalry, to fling stones at us, he proposed that wernshould charge them. I objected that the boys were too small and so wernwalked on, the ragged troop screaming after us: _“Swaddlers!rnSwaddlers!”_ thinking that we were Protestants because Mahony, who wasrndark-complexioned, wore the silver badge of a cricket club in his cap.rnWhen we came to the Smoothing Iron we arranged a siege; but it was arnfailure because you must have at least three. We revenged ourselves onrnLeo Dillon by saying what a funk he was and guessing how many he wouldrnget at three o’clock from Mr Ryan.rnrnWe came then near the river. We spent a long time walking about thernnoisy streets flanked by high stone walls, watching the working ofrncranes and engines and often being shouted at for our immobility by therndrivers of groaning carts. It was noon when we reached the quays and,rnas all the labourers seemed to be eating their lunches, we bought twornbig currant buns and sat down to eat them on some metal piping besidernthe river. We pleased ourselves with the spectacle of Dublin’srncommerce—the barges signalled from far away by their curls of woollyrnsmoke, the brown fishing fleet beyond Ringsend, the big whiternsailing-vessel which was being discharged on the opposite quay. Mahonyrnsaid it would be right skit to run away to sea on one of those bigrnships and even I, looking at the high masts, saw, or imagined, therngeography which had been scantily dosed to me at school graduallyrntaking substance under my eyes. School and home seemed to recede fromrnus and their influences upon us seemed to wane.rnrnWe crossed the Liffey in the ferryboat, paying our toll to berntransported in the company of two labourers and a little Jew with arnbag. We were serious to the point of solemnity, but once during thernshort voyage our eyes met and we laughed. When we landed we watched therndischarging of the graceful threemaster which we had observed from thernother quay. Some bystander said that she was a Norwegian vessel. I wentrnto the stern and tried to decipher the legend upon it but, failing torndo so, I came back and examined the foreign sailors to see had any ofrnthem green eyes for I had some confused notion.... The sailors’ eyesrnwere blue and grey and even black. The only sailor whose eyes couldrnhave been called green was a tall man who amused the crowd on the quayrnby calling out cheerfully every time the planks fell:rnrn“All right! All right!”rnrnWhen we were tired of this sight we wandered slowly into Ringsend. Thernday had grown sultry, and in the windows of the grocers’ shops mustyrnbiscuits lay bleaching. We bought some biscuits and chocolate which wernate sedulously as we wandered through the squalid streets where thernfamilies of the fishermen live. We could find no dairy and so we wentrninto a huckster’s shop and bought a bottle of raspberry lemonade each.rnRefreshed by this, Mahony chased a cat down a lane, but the cat escapedrninto a wide field. We both felt rather tired and when we reached thernfield we made at once for a sloping bank over the ridge of which werncould see the Dodder.rnrnIt was too late and we were too tired to carry out our project ofrnvisiting the Pigeon House. We had to be home before four o’clock lestrnour adventure should be discovered. Mahony looked regretfully at hisrncatapult and I had to suggest going home by train before he regainedrnany cheerfulness. The sun went in behind some clouds and left us to ourrnjaded thoughts and the crumbs of our provisions.rnrnThere was nobody but ourselves in the field. When we had lain on thernbank for some time without speaking I saw a man approaching from thernfar end of the field. I watched him lazily as I chewed one of thoserngreen stems on which girls tell fortunes. He came along by the bankrnslowly. He walked with one hand upon his hip and in the other hand hernheld a stick with which he tapped the turf lightly. He was shabbilyrndressed in a suit of greenish-black and wore what we used to call arnjerry hat with a high crown. He seemed to be fairly old for hisrnmoustache was ashen-grey. When he passed at our feet he glanced up atrnus quickly and then continued his way. We followed him with our eyesrnand saw that when he had gone on for perhaps fifty paces he turnedrnabout and began to retrace his steps. He walked towards us very slowly,rnalways tapping the ground with his stick, so slowly that I thought hernwas looking for something in the grass.rnrnHe stopped when he came level with us and bade us good-day. We answeredrnhim and he sat down beside us on the slope slowly and with great care.rnHe began to talk of the weather, saying that it would be a very hotrnsummer and adding that the seasons had changed greatly since he was arnboy—a long time ago. He said that the happiest time of one’s life wasrnundoubtedly one’s schoolboy days and that he would give anything to bernyoung again. While he expressed these sentiments which bored us arnlittle we kept silent. Then he began to talk of school and of books. Hernasked us whether we had read the poetry of Thomas Moore or the works ofrnSir Walter Scott and Lord Lytton. I pretended that I had read everyrnbook he mentioned so that in the end he said:rnrn“Ah, I can see you are a bookworm like myself. Now,” he added, pointingrnto Mahony who was regarding us with open eyes, “he is different; herngoes in for games.”rnrnHe said he had all Sir Walter Scott’s works and all Lord Lytton’s worksrnat home and never tired of reading them. “Of course,” he said, “therernwere some of Lord Lytton’s works which boys couldn’t read.” Mahonyrnasked why couldn’t boys read them—a question which agitated and painedrnme because I was afraid the man would think I was as stupid as Mahony.rnThe man, however, only smiled. I saw that he had great gaps in hisrnmouth between his yellow teeth. Then he asked us which of us had thernmost sweethearts. Mahony mentioned lightly that he had three totties.rnThe man asked me how many had I. I answered that I had none. He did notrnbelieve me and said he was sure I must have one. I was silent.rnrn“Tell us,” said Mahony pertly to the man, “how many have you yourself?”rnrnThe man smiled as before and said that when he was our age he had lotsrnof sweethearts.rnrn“Every boy,” he said, “has a little sweetheart.”rnrnHis attitude on this point struck me as strangely liberal in a man ofrnhis age. In my heart I thought that what he said about boys andrnsweethearts was reasonable. But I disliked the words in his mouth and Irnwondered why he shivered once or twice as if he feared something orrnfelt a sudden chill. As he proceeded I noticed that his accent wasrngood. He began to speak to us about girls, saying what nice soft hairrnthey had and how soft their hands were and how all girls were not sorngood as they seemed to be if one only knew. There was nothing he liked,rnhe said, so much as looking at a nice young girl, at her nice whiternhands and her beautiful soft hair. He gave me the impression that hernwas repeating something which he had learned by heart or that,rnmagnetised by some words of his own speech, his mind was slowlyrncircling round and round in the same orbit. At times he spoke as if hernwere simply alluding to some fact that everybody knew, and at times hernlowered his voice and spoke mysteriously as if he were telling usrnsomething secret which he did not wish others to overhear. He repeatedrnhis phrases over and over again, varying them and surrounding them withrnhis monotonous voice. I continued to gaze towards the foot of thernslope, listening to him.rnrnAfter a long while his monologue paused. He stood up slowly, sayingrnthat he had to leave us for a minute or so, a few minutes, and, withoutrnchanging the direction of my gaze, I saw him walking slowly away fromrnus towards the near end of the field. We remained silent when he hadrngone. After a silence of a few minutes I heard Mahony exclaim:rnrn“I say! Look what he’s doing!”rnrnAs I neither answered nor raised my eyes Mahony exclaimed again:rnrn“I say.... He’s a queer old josser!”rnrn“In case he asks us for our names,” I said, “let you be Murphy and I’llrnbe Smith.”rnrnWe said nothing further to each other. I was still considering whetherrnI would go away or not when the man came back and sat down beside usrnagain. Hardly had he sat down when Mahony, catching sight of the catrnwhich had escaped him, sprang up and pursued her across the field. Thernman and I watched the chase. The cat escaped once more and Mahony beganrnto throw stones at the wall she had escaladed. Desisting from this, hernbegan to wander about the far end of the field, aimlessly.rnrnAfter an interval the man spoke to me. He said that my friend was arnvery rough boy and asked did he get whipped often at school. I wasrngoing to reply indignantly that we were not National School boys to bernwhipped, as he called it; but I remained silent. He began to speak onrnthe subject of chastising boys. His mind, as if magnetised again by hisrnspeech, seemed to circle slowly round and round its new centre. He saidrnthat when boys were that kind they ought to be whipped and wellrnwhipped. When a boy was rough and unruly there was nothing would do himrnany good but a good sound whipping. A slap on the hand or a box on thernear was no good: what he wanted was to get a nice warm whipping. I wasrnsurprised at this sentiment and involuntarily glanced up at his face.rnAs I did so I met the gaze of a pair of bottle-green eyes peering at mernfrom under a twitching forehead. I turned my eyes away again.rnrnThe man continued his monologue. He seemed to have forgotten his recentrnliberalism. He said that if ever he found a boy talking to girls orrnhaving a girl for a sweetheart he would whip him and whip him; and thatrnwould teach him not to be talking to girls. And if a boy had a girl forrna sweetheart and told lies about it then he would give him such arnwhipping as no boy ever got in this world. He said that there wasrnnothing in this world he would like so well as that. He described to mernhow he would whip such a boy as if he were unfolding some elaboraternmystery. He would love that, he said, better than anything in thisrnworld; and his voice, as he led me monotonously through the mystery,rngrew almost affectionate and seemed to plead with me that I shouldrnunderstand him.rnrnI waited till his monologue paused again. Then I stood up abruptly.rnLest I should betray my agitation I delayed a few moments pretending tornfix my shoe properly and then, saying that I was obliged to go, I badernhim good-day. I went up the slope calmly but my heart was beatingrnquickly with fear that he would seize me by the ankles. When I reachedrnthe top of the slope I turned round and, without looking at him, calledrnloudly across the field:rnrn“Murphy!”rnrnMy voice had an accent of forced bravery in it and I was ashamed of myrnpaltry stratagem. I had to call the name again before Mahony saw me andrnhallooed in answer. How my heart beat as he came running across thernfield to me! He ran as if to bring me aid. And I was penitent; for inrnmy heart I had always despised him a little.