Campbell to watch them play croquet on the lovely lawn beside their church on Barrington Street. Croquet is a Protestant game.They hit the ball with the mallet,pock and pock again,and laugh.I wonder how they can laugh or don’t they even know they’re doomed? I feel sorry for them and I say, Billy, what’s the use of playing croquet when you’re doomed? He says, Frankie, what’s the use of not playing croquet when you’re doomed? Grandma  says  to  Mam, Your  brother  Pat,  bad  leg  an’  all,  was  selling papers all over Limerick by the time he was eight and that Frank of yours is big and ugly enough to work. But he’s only nine and still in school. School. ’Tis school that has him the way he is talkin’ back an’ goin’ around with the sour puss an’ the odd manner like his father. He could get out an’ help poor Pat of a Friday night when the Limerick Leader is a ton weight. He could run up the long garden paths of the quality an’ save Pat’s poor legs an’ earn a few pennies into the bargain. He has to go to the Confraternity on Friday nights. Never  mind  the  Confraternity. There’s  nothin’  in  the  catechism about confraternities. I meet Uncle Pat at the Limerick Leader  on Friday evening at five. The man handing out the papers says my arms are that skinny I’d be lucky to carry two stamps but Uncle Pat sticks eight papers under each arm.He tells me,I’ll kill you if you drop ’em for ’tis raining abroad,pelt- ing out of the heavens. He tells me hug the walls going up O’Connell Street  to  keep  the  papers  dry.  I’m  to  run  in  where  there’s  a  deliv- ery, climb the outside steps, in the door, up the stairs, yell Paper, get the money they owe him for the week,down the stairs,give him the money and on to the next stop. Customers give him tips for his troubles and he keeps them for himself. We make our way up O’Connell Avenue, out Ballinacurra, in by the South  Circular  Road,  down  Henry  Street  and  back  to  the  office  for more  papers. Uncle Pat wears a cap and a thing like a cowboy poncho to  keep  his  papers  dry  but  he  complains  his  feet  are  killing  him  and we  stop in a pub for a pint for his poor feet. Uncle Pa Keating is there all  black and having a pint and he says to Uncle Pat, Ab, are you going 173