Читать книгу The Rat-Pit - Patrick MacGill - Страница 27

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ONE day the master asked Dermod Flynn if he knew what race of people lived in Liverpool. As usual Dermod did not know.

“Dockers and Irishmen,” Norah Ryan, whose mind reverted to the letter which had been received from Fergus, whispered under her breath.

“Rockets and Irishmen,” Dermod blurted out.

No one laughed: a rocket had never been seen in Glenmornan, and it would have surprised none of the children if Dermod were correct; it would have surprised none of them if he were wrong. The master reached for the hazel rod.

“Hold out your hand, Dermod Flynn,” he commanded and delivered four blows on the boy’s palm. Flynn held out his hand for a fifth slap: the master took no notice.

“Now, Norah Ryan, hold out your hand,” said the master. “Promptin’ is worse than tellin’ lies.”

Norah received two slaps, much lighter than those delivered to the boy. The master knew that she was going to be a nun one day, and he respected her accordingly, but not to such an extent that he could refrain from using the rod of correction.

Dermod Flynn turned and stared at Norah. A red blush mantled her cheeks, and she looked at him shyly for a moment; then her lashes dropped quickly, for she felt that he was looking into her very soul. He appeared self-possessed, impervious to the pain of the master’s chastisement. After a while Norah looked at him again, but he was gazing vacantly out of the window at a brook tumbling from the rocky hills that fringed the further side of the playground.

When school was dismissed and the scholars were on their way home, Dermod spoke to Norah.

“Why did you help me in the class to-day?” he asked.

She did not answer but turned away and stared at the stream falling from the dark rocks.

“It’s like white smoke against a black cloud,” he said following her gaze.

“What is?”

“The stream falling from the rocks.”

On the day following Dermod got into trouble again. His class was asked to write an essay on fire, and Dermod sat biting his pen until the allotted time was nearly finished. Then he scribbled down a few lines.

“A house without fire is like a man without a stomach; a chimney without smoke is like a man without breath, for——”

That was all. Dermod pondered over the word “stomach” for a while and felt that it made the whole sentence an unseemly one. He was stroking out the word when the master, awakening from his sleep, grabbed the essay and read it. He read it a second time, then took down a hazel rod from the nail on which it hung. The ignorance of the boy who wrote such a sentence was most profound. The master caned Dermod.

Norah Ryan made rapid progress at her work, and when she went home in the evening she sat down on the hassock and learned her lessons by the light of the peat fire. She considered old Master Diver to be a very learned man, but somehow she could not get herself to like him. “Why does he beat Dermod Flynn so often?” she asked herself time and again, and whenever she thought of school she thought of Dermod Flynn.

Her mother, who had improved in health, now that there was food to eat, brought a looking-glass from Greenanore one day. She paid fourpence halfpenny for it in “McKeown’s Great Emporium,” the new business which had just been started by the yarn merchant. Norah dressed her hair in front of this glass, and one day when engaged in the task, she said: “I wish I could see Dermod Flynn now!” Perhaps she really meant to say: “I wish Dermod Flynn could see me now!” In any case she got so red in the face that her mother asked her what was wrong.

Shortly afterwards Dermod Flynn’s school troubles came to an end. His class was standing as usual, facing the map of the world, and Master Diver asked Dermod to point out Corsica. The boy did not know where Corsica was; he stared at the map, holding the idle pointer in his hand.

“Point out Corsica!” the master repeated, and seized the youth by the ear, which he pulled vigorously. The blood mounted to the boy’s cheeks, and raising the pointer suddenly he hit the master sharply across the face.

“You’ve killed him, Dermod Flynn!” Norah Ryan gasped involuntarily. The old fellow put his hands over his face and sank down limply on the form. Blood trickled through his fingers ... a fly settled on his bald head ... the scholars stared aghast at their fallen master. Dermod gazed at the old man for a moment, then seizing his cap he rushed out of the schoolroom. Most of the boys followed the example, and when the master, who only suffered from a slight flesh wound, regained his feet and looked round, the school was almost deserted.

Dermod Flynn did not return again, and after his departure Norah found that she did not like the school so much as formerly.