I can, Mr. McCaffrey.
You can read and write but can you do addition and subtraction?
I can, Mr. McCaffrey.
Well, I dont know what the policy is on sore eyes. I would have to
ring Dublin and see where they stand on sore eyes. But your writing is
clear, McCourt.A good fist.Well take you on pending the decision on
the sore eyes. Monday morning. Half six at the railway station.
In the morning?
In the morning.We dont give out the bloody morning papers at
night, do we?
No, Mr. McCaffrey.
Another thing.We distribute The Irish Times, a Protestant paper, run
by the freemasons in Dublin.We pick it up at the railway station.We
count it.We take it to the newsagents. But we dont read it. I dont want
to see you reading it.You could lose the Faith and by the look of those
eyes you could lose your sight. Do you hear me, McCourt?
I do, Mr. McCaffrey.
No IrishTimes, and when you come in next week Ill tell you about
all the English filth youre not to read in this office. Do you hear me?
I do, Mr. McCaffrey.
Mrs. OConnell has the tight mouth and she wont look at me. She says
to Miss Barry, I hear a certain upstart from the lanes walked away from
the post office exam.Too good for it, I suppose.
True for you, says Miss Barry.
Too good for us, I suppose.
True for you.
Do you think hed ever tell us why he didnt take the exam?
Oh, he might, says Miss Barry, if we went down on our two knees.
I tell her, I want to go to America, Mrs. OConnell.
Did you hear that, Miss Barry?
I did, indeed, Mrs. OConnell.
He spoke.
He did, indeed.
He will rue the day, Miss Barry.
Rue he will, Mrs. OConnell.
Mrs. OConnell talks past me to the boys waiting on the bench for
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