Page 108 - a-portrait-of-the-artist-as-a-young-man

—It’s a pretty old air, said Mr Dedalus, twirling the
points of his moustache. Ah, but you should have heard
Mick Lacy sing it! Poor Mick Lacy! He had little turns for it,
grace notes that he used to put in that I haven’t got. That was
the boy who could sing a COME-ALL-YOU, if you like.
Mr Dedalus had ordered drisheens for breakfast and dur-
ing the meal he cross-examined the waiter for local news.
For the most part they spoke at cross purposes when a name
was mentioned, the waiter having in mind the present hold-
er and Mr Dedalus his father or perhaps his grandfather.
—Well, I hope they haven’t moved the Queen’s Col-
lege anyhow, said Mr Dedalus, for I want to show it to this
youngster of mine.
Along the Mardyke the trees were in bloom. They entered
the grounds of the college and were led by the garrulous
porter across the quadrangle. But their progress across the
gravel was brought to a halt after every dozen or so paces by
some reply of the porter’s.
—Ah, do you tell me so? And is poor Pottlebelly dead?
—Yes, sir. Dead, sir.
During these halts Stephen stood awkwardly behind the
two men, weary of the subject and waiting restlessly for the
slow march to begin again. By the time they had crossed the
quadrangle his restlessness had risen to fever. He wondered
how his father, whom he knew for a shrewd suspicious man,
could be duped by the servile manners of the porter; and
the lively southern speech which had entertained him all
the morning now irritated his ears.
They passed into the anatomy theatre where Mr Dedalus,

108 A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man