Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [23]
He talked on, his language fat with superlatives. Then, becoming as skittish as a portly and dignified pastor from the old sod can be, he said that while he was opposed to gambling, he was still willing to bet that there was not a parish in the great city of Chicago that could have put on a finer display or have turned out a more stalwart graduating class than St. Patrick’s had on this June evening. He was interrupted by loud clapping, and he smiled . . . magnificently.
He continued his talk, reminding his dear friends that in this, their hour of joy, they must not forget the good sisters who had trained the children, not only in reading and writing and arithmetic, not only for the splendid performance they had made that evening, but also for the more serious and important task of . . . saving their immortal souls.
“After all, we are made to love, to serve, and to obey Gawd in this world, and to be happy with Him in the next, just as the catechism teaches us,” he said profoundly.
And it was the religious training, the daily example and inspiration provided by the modest, self-sacrificing, holy virgins who had pointed out the path of salvation for the children of St. Patrick’s parish. The graduates of St. Patrick’s parish all walked in the ways of Gawd, grew up into sterling-silver specimens of Catholic manhood and womanhood, because of the teaching, the kind nurturing in goodness that they met with in the classrooms of St. Patrick’s school. The entire parish owed a heartfelt tribute to these white-souled women.
In the rear of the hall, left-hand side, were three ex-little ones of St. Patrick’s who had worn out the patience of the holy women, three naughty little boys who had been canned from school and who might even end on the gallows. They were kids of Studs’ age, Paulie Haggerty and Tommy Doyle, who were famous not only because they were hard guys but also because they had such fat butts, and tough Red Kelly, whose old man was a police sergeant. Hook-nosed, bow-legged Davey Cohen and Three-Star Hennessey, fourteen, small and considered nothing but a tricky punk, were also with them. They had all snuck in and were having a good time, making trouble. Davey suddenly whisted to Red, Tommy and Paulie. They whispered, and laughed quietly, and Red told Davey to go ahead. Davey goosed Hennessey. Hennessey was goosey anyway, and he jumped; his writhings disturbed a surrounding semi-circle of dignity. But Three-Star suddenly saved himself; he pointed out Vinc Curley. Vinc was better goose meat.
The priest spoke on, and the boys on the stage grew more restless. Weary Reilley told Jim Clayburn that he wished old Gilly would pipe down, but Jim didn’t answer, because Jim knew how to act in public, and anyway he was almost like a boy scout. TB McCarthy told Gunboats Reardon that it was all a lot of hot air, and Reardon nodded as he shifted his weight from the right to the left gunboat. Father Doneggan heard TB, and gave him a couple of dirty looks. Studs wiped the sweat from his face and fidgeted less than the others. He told himself that he wished Gilly would choke his bull and let it die. Gilly spoke of Catholic education, praising the parents who had possessed the courage, the conscience and the faith to give their children a Catholic schooling. He contrasted them with those careless, miserly and irreligious fathers and mothers who