—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
coming. 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 beyond 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.
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.
—Very good, Simon. All serene, Simon,
said the old man tranquilly. Anywhere you like.
The outhouse will do me nicely: it will be more
salubrious.
—Damn me, said Mr Dedalus frankly, if I
know how you can smoke such villainous awful tobacco.
It’s like gunpowder, by God.
—It’s very nice, Simon, replied the
old man. Very cool and mollifying.
Every morning, therefore, uncle Charles repaired to
his outhouse but not before he had greased and brushed
scrupulously his back hair and brushed and put on
his tall hat. While he smoked the brim of his
tall hat and the bowl of his pipe were just visible
beyond the jambs of the outhouse door. His arbour,
as he called the reeking outhouse which he shared
with the cat and the garden tools, served him also
as a sounding-box: and every morning he hummed
contentedly one of his favourite songs: O, twine
me A Bower or blue eyes and
golden hair or the Groves of
blarney while the grey and blue coils of smoke
rose slowly from his pipe and vanished in the pure
air.
During the first part of the summer in Blackrock uncle
Charles was Stephen’s constant companion.
Uncle Charles was a hale old man with a well tanned
skin, rugged features and white side whiskers.
On week days he did messages between the house in
Carysfort Avenue and those shops in the main street
of the town with which the family dealt. Stephen
was glad to go with him on these errands for uncle
Charles helped him very liberally to handfuls of whatever
was exposed in open boxes and barrels outside the
counter. He would seize a handful of grapes and
sawdust or three or four American apples and thrust
them generously into his grandnephew’s hand
while the shopman smiled uneasily; and, on Stephen’s
feigning reluctance to take them, he would frown and
say:
