Page 201 - a-portrait-of-the-artist-as-a-young-man

behind their house whom they had nicknamed the man
with the hat. A second laugh, taking rise from the first after
a pause, broke from him involuntarily as he thought of how
the man with the hat worked, considering in turn the four
points of the sky and then regretfully plunging his spade in
the earth.
He pushed open the latchless door of the porch and
passed through the naked hallway into the kitchen. A group
of his brothers and sisters was sitting round the table. Tea
was nearly over and only the last of the second watered tea
remained in the bottoms of the small glass jars and jampots
which did service for teacups. Discarded crusts and lumps
of sugared bread, turned brown by the tea which had been
poured over them, lay scattered on the table. Little wells of
tea lay here and there on the board, and a knife with a bro-
ken ivory handle was stuck through the pith of a ravaged
turnover.
The sad quiet grey-blue glow of the dying day came
through the window and the open door, covering over and
allaying quietly a sudden instinct of remorse in Stephen’s
heart. All that had been denied them had been freely given
to him, the eldest; but the quiet glow of evening showed him
in their faces no sign of rancour.
He sat near them at the table and asked where his father
and mother were. One answered:
—Goneboro toboro lookboro atboro aboro houseboro.
Still another removal! A boy named Fallon in Belvedere
had often asked him with a silly laugh why they moved so
often. A frown of scorn darkened quickly his forehead as he

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