Page 115 - a-portrait-of-the-artist-as-a-young-man

—I don’t know, I’m sure, said Mr Dedalus, smiling com-
placently.
—Your father, said the little old man to Stephen, was the
boldest flirt in the City of Cork in his day. Do you know
that?
Stephen looked down and studied the tiled floor of the
bar into which they had drifted.
—Now don’t be putting ideas into his head, said Mr Ded-
alus. Leave him to his Maker.
—Yerra, sure I wouldn’t put any ideas into his head. I’m
old enough to be his grandfather. And I am a grandfather,
said the little old man to Stephen. Do you know that?
—Are you? asked Stephen.
—Bedad I am, said the little old man. I have two bounc-
ing grandchildren out at Sunday’s Well. Now, then! What
age do you think I am? And I remember seeing your grand-
father in his red coat riding out to hounds. That was before
you were born.
—Ay, or thought of, said Mr Dedalus.
—Bedad I did, repeated the little old man. And, more
than that, I can remember even your great-grandfather, old
John Stephen Dedalus, and a fierce old fire-eater he was.
Now, then! There’s a memory for you!
—That’s three generations—four generations, said an-
other of the company. Why, Johnny Cashman, you must be
nearing the century.
—Well, I’ll tell you the truth, said the little old man. I’m
just twenty-seven years of age.
—We’re as old as we feel, Johnny, said Mr Dedalus. And

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