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By Root 10724 0

its shape distorted because of the night. Christ, how many times had he come here? They used to play pompompullaway in the yard at lunch hour. He’d run through, stiff-arming anybody who came near. They were afraid of him. Damn tootin’, they were. Studs Lonigan had been something to be afraid of. And one day, he remembered Battling Bertha giving TB McCarthy the clouts. He remembered TB covering his face and yelling to be let alone, then thinking suddenly that she was finished, he’d raised his face, and she’d been bringing her clapper down, and it had got him in the nose. He had yelled like hell, and his nose had bled. And in all those days, he’d sat in the chalk-smelling room, looked up at the desk where Bertha sat in the right-hand corner of the window, he’d watched the sun coming through the window, and it would seem to come in lines, and show up all the dust. And the way Bertha would say with respect: William Lonigan, now perhaps you can diagram the first sentence. He’d had a drag with her, and she usedn’t to give him the clouts as much as she had the others, because his old man always gave the sisters a turkey at Thanksgiving and Christmas. He still sent one to the sisters.

He passed along the iron picket-fence. He noticed a light in the sisters’ convent. He looked at the old building, from the front, the steps leading up to the wide wooden doors. He’d stood here, too, after mass on many mornings.

He was still doing it. With this building here, looking the same, things couldn’t be changed, and it couldn’t be so many years ago, it couldn’t. This building gave him confidence. Everything was all the same as it used to be, and he wasn’t fat and worried about his health, and it couldn’t be different, and all that couldn’t be gone. He stood in a trance.

A street car passed. An old nigger in overalls walked wearily by him. He looked to his left at the new church, standing now huge and high. He remembered how the parish had talked of it. And it was a goddamn beautiful church, and what was it for now—a handful of black bastards.

He turned and walked away. At Sixtieth and Calumet, he paused to watch two young nigger kids wrestling. Three classily-dressed young shines minced past him. He walked right along behind them.

“I swear, ah’ll tear your eyes out, Gloria, if you all start making those oogle eyes at my big man.”

“What does I care for that big black bastard you got?”

For Christ sake! He followed them. They slackened their pace. He walked by them, and one of the fairies said hello. A second one said he looked lonesome. A third asked if he had any chickens on the block. He was momentarily tempted to take a chance out of curiosity. Self-disgust rose, changing his mind. He turned and told them to blow. They laughed, and he walked on, hearing their voices and laughter behind him, feeling that he was being talked about. It was almost as if he were being humiliated, undressed, in public, and he hastened.

Automobiles were coming in all directions at Sixtieth and South Park. He wanted to get across the street. He dashed in front of the cars, dodged, and just landed safely on the other side. He was out of breath, but he was proud of himself. It had been taking a chance. His guts were still there, and he was still the old Studs Lonigan, ready to run risks. If he hadn’t had guts, he wouldn’t have taken the risk of his life, dashing in front of the cars. Damn tootin’, he was! He drifted through the park. The wind was powerful, and he heard it beating steadily through the empty trees, scraping and rustling the dead leaves. It was dark, with scarcely a star in the sky. Dark, lonely in the park. It had used to be his park. He almost felt as if his memories were in it, walking about like ghosts. He turned to go and look at the lagoon.

Ahead, he saw a stout, squat fellow searching on the ground, repeatedly lighting matches. The sight was funny, almost like a shot from a movie comedy. He suddenly imagined that the guy had lost a valuable ring, money. It was perhaps something happening in real life, like one of the detective stories he