There was no hope for him this time: it
was the third stroke. Night after night I had
passed the house (it was vacation time) and studied
the lighted square of window: and night after
night I had found it lighted in the same way, faintly
and evenly. If he was dead, I thought, I would
see the reflection of candles on the darkened blind
for I knew that two candles must be set at the head
of a corpse. He had often said to me: “I
am not long for this world,” and I had thought
his words idle. Now I knew they were true.
Every night as I gazed up at the window I said softly
to myself the word paralysis. It had always sounded
strangely in my ears, like the word gnomon in the
Euclid and the word simony in the Catechism.
But now it sounded to me like the name of some maleficent
and sinful being. It filled me with fear, and
yet I longed to be nearer to it and to look upon its
deadly work.
Old Cotter was sitting at the fire, smoking, when
I came downstairs to supper. While my aunt was
ladling out my stirabout he said, as if returning
to some former remark of his:
“No, I wouldn’t say he was exactly...
but there was something queer... there was something
uncanny about him. I’ll tell you my opinion....”
He began to puff at his pipe, no doubt arranging his
opinion in his mind. Tiresome old fool!
When we knew him first he used to be rather interesting,
talking of faints and worms; but I soon grew tired
of him and his endless stories about the distillery.
“I have my own theory about it,” he said.
“I think it was one of those ... peculiar cases
.... But it’s hard to say....”
He began to puff again at his pipe without giving
us his theory. My uncle saw me staring and said
to me:
“Well, so your old friend is gone, you’ll
be sorry to hear.”
“Who?” said I.
“Father Flynn.”
“Is he dead?”
“Mr. Cotter here has just told us. He was
passing by the house.”
I knew that I was under observation so I continued
eating as if the news had not interested me.
My uncle explained to old Cotter.
“The youngster and he were great friends.
The old chap taught him a great deal, mind you; and
they say he had a great wish for him.”
“God have mercy on his soul,” said my
aunt piously.
Old Cotter looked at me for a while. I felt that
his little beady black eyes were examining me but
I would not satisfy him by looking up from my plate.
He returned to his pipe and finally spat rudely into
the grate.
“I wouldn’t like children of mine,”
he said, “to have too much to say to a man like
that.”
“How do you mean, Mr. Cotter?” asked my
aunt.
“What I mean is,” said old Cotter, “it’s
bad for children. My idea is: let a young
lad run about and play with young lads of his own age
and not be... Am I right, Jack?”
