IT WAS Joe Dillon who introduced the Wild West to us. He had a little
library made up of old numbers of The Union Jack, Pluck and The
Halfpenny Marvel.

Every evening after school we met in his back garden
and arranged Indian battles. He and his fat young brother Leo,
idler, held the loft of stable while we tried to carry it by storm;
or we fought a pitched battle on the grass. But, however well we fought,
we never won siege or battle and all our bouts ended with Joe Dillon's
war dance of victory. His parents went to eight-o'clock mass every
morning in Gardiner Street and peaceful odour of Mrs. Dillon was
prevalent in the hall of house. But he played too fiercely for us
who were younger and more timid. He looked like some kind of an Indian
when he capered round the garden, an old tea-cosy on his head, beating a
tin with his fist and yelling:

"Ya! yaka, yaka, yaka!"

Everyone was incredulous when it was reported that he had a vocation for
priesthood. Nevertheless it was true.

A spirit of unruliness diffused itself among us and, under its
influence, differences of culture and constitution were waived. We
banded ourselves together, some boldly, some in jest and some almost in
fear: and of number of these latter, reluctant Indians who
were afraid to seem studious or lacking in robustness, I was one. The
adventures related in literature of the Wild West were remote from
my nature but, at least, they opened doors of escape. I liked better
some American detective stories which were traversed from time to time
by unkempt fierce and beautiful girls. Though there was nothing wrong
in these stories and though their intention was sometimes literary
they were circulated secretly at school. One day when Father Butler was
hearing four pages of Roman History clumsy Leo Dillon was discovered
with a copy of The Halfpenny Marvel.

"This page or this page? This page Now, Dillon, up! 'Hardly had
day'... Go on! What day? 'Hardly had the day dawned'... Have you studied
it? What have you there in your pocket?"

Everyone's heart palpitated as Leo Dillon handed up paper and
everyone assumed an innocent face. Father Butler turned over pages,
frowning.

"What is this rubbish?" he said. "The Apache Chief! Is this what you
read instead of studying your Roman History? Let me not find any more
of this wretched stuff in this college. man who wrote it, I suppose,
was some wretched fellow who writes these things for a drink. I'm
surprised at boys like you, educated, reading such stuff. I could
understand it if you were... National School boys. Now, Dillon, I advise
you