Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [29]
“I’m not goin’,” said Weary.
“I don’t think I’ll go,” said Studs.
“Schools are all so much horse apple,” said Weary.
“I don’t want to go, but the gaffer wants me to, I guess,” said Studs.
“Well, I ain’t goin’, and my old man can lump it if he don’t like it,” said Weary.
“Gonna work?”
“Maybe,” said Weary.
“Maybe I’ll get myself a jobber,” said Studs.
“Say, by the way, Gilly didn’t ask for any dough in his speech, did he? I wonder if the old boy is sick or startin’ to get feeble,” said Weary.
“Well, he told us all to remember and not forget to contribute to the support of our pastor,” said Studs.
“Yeah, that’s right. He’s never yet made a sermon without askin‘ for somethin’, a coal collection, or a collection for the starvin’ chinks, or for Indian missions, or some damn thing,” said Weary.
“He’s always asking for the shekels. He’s as bad as a kike,” said Studs.
“And did you hear his crack about the playground?” said Weary.
“Yeah,” said Studs.
“Well, I couldn’t keep a straight face when he made that crack about our large playground. Boy! a yard full of cinders where you can’t play football, or even pompompullaway without tearin’ hell out of your clothes and yourself, and they won’t let you play ball in it because they’re afraid you’ll break a window, and he’s too damn cheap to put up baskets for basketball. Like the gag he worked on us in winter. We were the snow brigade, and got a lot of praise for shoveling snow off of his sidewalks, and he saved the money he’d of had to pay to have it done ... and he patted us on the head, said we were good boys, and gave us each a dime,” said Weary.
“Well, I gotta go,” said Studs.
“Me, too,” said Weary.
“Here’s some gum to take the fags off your breath,” said Studs, sticking some Spearmint in his mouth.
“S . . t, the old man knows I smoke anyway,” said Weary.
They walked out to the front to meet their proud, waiting parents.
VIII
Small crowds gathered in front of the parish building, to converse, laugh and reflect the glory of the children and elders of St. Patrick’s parish. The Lonigans stood in one such small group. Lonigan spied Dennis P. Gorman. Mr. Dennis P. Gorman was a thin, effeminate man with a dandified mustache, and his nose was sharp. He was exceedingly well tailored in a freshly pressed gray suit; he wore a clean white shirt, a high stiff collar and a black tie. His meek, satellite wife was at his side; she was moron-faced, and looked younger than her thirty-six years. These well-known parishioners were standing under the arc light, bowing profusely and elegantly to the passers-by. Lonigan moved from the group he was in, without excusing himself; his wife followed. He hastened up to Gorman, held out his hand and said:
“Hello, Dinny!”
Dennis P. Gorman proffered a limp hand. Mrs. Dennis P. Gorman bowed and offered saccharine compliments for the Lonigan children.
“Well, Dinny, what did you think of it?” Lonigan asked.
While Dennis P. Gorman paused and cleared his throat for oratorical delivery, Mrs. Lonigan approached, and she and Dennis’s wife engaged in mothers’ talk.
Dennis’s effeminate voice was now prepared for action, and he said in tones of mingled melodrama and sing-song:
“Well, I believe, in fact, I am firmly convinced, that Mr. Wilson’s nomination today was an excellent choice . . . yes, an excellent choice. I am profoundly gratified that he has been renominated. I shall be proud to give him my own humble vote, and believe that it is the positive duty of every public-spirited citizen to do likewise. I shall endeavor, within my own limited power, to assist in his campaign for reelection. There is not one iota, no, not one slightest crepuscular adumbration of doubt but that Mr. Wilson is more qualified to wield and sway such power as resides in the chief executive position of the United States than his opponent, Mr. Hughes. He has brains, administrative capacity, diplomatic skill, integrity, ability, courage and a brilliant record. It was due to his efforts that we have, today, the Federal Reserve System, which shall,