At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [145]
“Constriptin.”
“Conscription,” Mr. Mack corrected. “There’s a deal of trouble in that.” A while, then he added, “I wasn’t aware there was papers sold on Christmas Day.”
The boy shifted his sheaf, one arm to the other, importantly to announce, “Workers’ Republic.” He sniffed, then once again he swapped the sheaf over, as though its substance was too great for one thin arm to contain it long.
Mr. Mack sniffed too. “Workers’ Republic, is it?” There was a ring of Larkinism to the name. “And how did you come by that in Glasthule?”
Carefully the boy explained. There was a young fella after selling them, in Kingstown this was, yesday affnoon, he had a uningform on him, all dark green, outside of the railway station. The papers got thrun in the wind, after the polis come, in the ruggy-up that follied, looking for his license. Then after the polis was gone, they took the young fella with them, so he gathered them up the pages himself, and made them at home into papers again. “Worth penny each. Says so on the front.”
He offered one in evidence and under the streetlamp Mr. Mack perused the page. “And do you think to sell many of that outside of Fennelly’s on Christmas Day night?”
The da had said to try it only. The da had said whatever got sold, he’d see that went where it was meant for. It was meant, the boy told him, for the Irish Citizen Army. Mr. Mack made no doubt of that. “And where’s this your da is now?”
The boy jerked his head, indicating Fennelly’s behind. Mr. Mack nodded. Only for quick glances at the pub door to be sure of any customer, the boy hadn’t looked his way at all. Now he asked of the gutter, “Is it true you’s not the general of the Fenians?”
“No more I am.”
“The da says you never was no Fenian.”
“Your da now would know all about that.”
“Says you’s next or near a Positant now.”
“A Protestant?” said Mr. Mack.
“Says they hunted you out the tuppenny-door at Mass. The ma says you keeps a strumpet at home with you, has her in the familiar way.”
“Now now.”
“What’s a strumpet, mister?”
“Never you mind about that.”
Mr. Mack viewed sideways the scrap of him and he wondered what on earth we had them for, to send them working this hour of night, to clothe them thinly and feed them poorly, and never a thought for impressionable young minds. Every day you see them, up and down the street, selling papers they can’t read them or coals they can’t burn them or cakes they’d never afford to eat. And their folks inside of Fennelly’s knocking back the Christmas spirit. God send ’tis a kinder world for the wee one above.
“Listen, young shaper, how many of that rag have you there with you?”
“Thirteen.”
“How much is that all together?”
“One and three.”
“It is not,” said Mr. Mack, though he counted out a shilling and thruppence for the boy. “Get on home to your bed now. And don’t be repeating things you oughtn’t be listening to. Do you hear me now?”
The boy did not appear the least surprised by the exchange. As if it was a popular halt, Glasthule, for good Samaritans. Mr. Mack stowed the sheaf under his arm. He wondered what was he to do with thirteen Larkinite papers. Knowing his luck now a constable would come along and he’d fetch up himself in the cells. Wasn’t that the price of the police? Arrest the messenger and leave the message floating about for any young waif to pick it up again.
The boy without papers to shift flapped his arms instead. His tiny toes curled over the curbstone. “There’ll be no rising so?”
Mr. Mack shook his head. Wouldn’t you think they’d find him a boots for the winter at least? “No, son, there’ll be no rising.”
“We was ready. Me and me pals was ready and willing.”
“I’m sure you were,” said Mr. Mack. “I’m sure you’re good brave boys. But you’d do better thinking of school and getting your readamadaisy and your rickmatick right.”
He bade a good night and