Page 70 - a-portrait-of-the-artist-as-a-young-man

him up among them and carried him along till he struggled
to get free. And when he had escaped from them they broke
away in all directions, flinging their caps again into the air
and whistling as they went spinning up and crying:
—Hurroo!
And they gave three groans for Baldyhead Dolan and
three cheers for Conmee and they said he was the decentest
rector that was ever in Clongowes.
The cheers died away in the soft grey air. He was alone.
He was happy and free; but he would not be anyway proud
with Father Dolan. He would be very quiet and obedient:
and he wished that he could do something kind for him to
show him that he was not proud.
The air was soft and grey and mild and evening was com-
ing. There was the smell of evening in the air, the smell of
the fields in the country where they digged up turnips to
peel them and eat them when they went out for a walk to
Major Barton’s, the smell there was in the little wood be-
yond the pavilion where the gallnuts were.
The fellows were practising long shies and bowling lobs
and slow twisters. In the soft grey silence he could hear the
bump of the balls: and from here and from there through
the quiet air the sound of the cricket bats: pick, pack, pock,
puck: like drops of water in a fountain falling softly in the
brimming bowl.
Chapter 2
Uncle Charles smoked such black twist that at last his
nephew suggested to him to enjoy his morning smoke in a
little outhouse at the end of the garden.

70 A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man