I’m  fagged  out,  Paddy. Them  steps  is  killin’  me.  Did  you  have your tea? I didn’t. Well, I don’t know if there’s any bread left. Go up an’ see. Paddy’s family live in one big room with a high ceiling and a small fireplace.There are two tall windows and you can see out to the Shan- non. His father is in a bed in the corner, groaning and spitting into a bucket. Paddy’s brothers and sisters are on mattresses on the floor, sleep- ing, talking, looking at the ceiling.There’s a baby with no clothes crawl- ing over to Paddy’s father’s bucket and Paddy pulls him away.His mother comes in, gasping, from the stairs. Jesus, I’m dead, she says. She finds some bread and makes weak tea for Paddy and me. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.They don’t say anything.They don’t say what are you doing here or go home or anything till Mr. Clohessy says, Who’s that? and Paddy tells him, ’Tis Frankie McCourt. Mr. Clohessy says, McCourt? What class of a name is that? My father is from the North, Mr. Clohessy. And what’s your mother’s name? Angela, Mr. Clohessy. Ah, Jaysus, ’twouldn’t be Angela Sheehan, would it? ’Twould, Mr. Clohessy. Ah, Jaysus, he says, and he has a coughing fit which brings up all kinds of stuff from his insides and has him hanging over the bucket. When the cough passes he falls back on the pillow. Ah, Frankie, I knew your mother well. Danced with her, Mother o’ Christ, I’m dying inside, danced  with  her  I  did  below  in  the Wembley  Hall  and  a  champion dancer she was too. He hangs over the bucket again. He gasps for air and reaches his arms out to get it. He suffers but he won’t stop talking. Champion dancer she was, Frankie. Not skinny mind you but a feather in my arms and there was many a sorry man when she left Lim- erick. Can you dance, Frankie? Ah, no, Mr. Clohessy. Paddy says, He can, Dada. He had the lessons from Mrs. O’Connor and Cyril Benson. Well,  dance,  Frankie.  Round  the  house  an’  mind  the  dresser, Frankie. Lift the foot, lad. I can’t, Mr. Clohessy. I’m no good. 164