Her face tightens and she’s angry.You are never to let anybody slam the door in your face again. Do you hear me? She starts to cry by the fire, Oh, God, I didn’t bring ye into the world to be a family of messenger boys. I don’t know what to do or say, I’m so relieved I don’t have to stay in school for five or six more years. I’m free. I’m thirteen going on fourteen and it’s June, the last month of school forever. Mam takes me to see the priest, Dr. Cowpar, about getting a job as telegram boy.The supervisor in the post office, Mrs. O’Connell, says, Do you know how to cycle, and I lie that I do. She says I can’t start till I’m fourteen so come back in August. Mr. O’Halloran tells the class it’s a disgrace that boys like McCourt, Clarke, Kennedy, have to hew wood and draw water. He is disgusted by this free and independent Ireland that keeps a class system foisted on us by  the  English,  that  we  are  throwing  our  talented  children  on  the dungheap. You must get out of this country, boys. Go to America, McCourt. Do you hear me? I do, sir. Priests  come  to  the  school  to  recruit  us  for  the  foreign  missions, Redemptorists, Franciscans, Holy Ghost Fathers, all converting the dis- tant heathen. I ignore them. I’m going to America till one priest catches my attention. He says he comes from the order of the White Fathers, missionaries to the nomadic Bedouin tribes and chaplains to the French Foreign Legion. I ask for the application. I will need a letter from the parish priest and a physical examination by my family doctor.The parish priest writes the letter on the spot. He would have been glad to see me go last year.The doctor says,What’s this? That’s an application to join the White Fathers, missionaries to the nomadic  tribes  of  the  Sahara  and  chaplains  to  the  French  Foreign Legion. Oh, yeh? French Foreign Legion, is it? Do you know the preferred form of transportation in the Sahara Desert? 290