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As they passed through the now deserted pathways that intersected the straggling collection of grey, thatched-roofed houses, and Prout's heavy step crunched into the broken coral, the natives, gathered together for their evening meal, looked forth, and the brown women called out a word or two of greeting to the child, and smiled and beckoned her to leave her father for an instant and take the fruit or piece of cooked breadfruit that they held out to her with their brown hands.
Of the numerous attempts to reproduce the overelaboration of rhyme to which Irish verse has ever been prone, Father Prout's Bells of Shandon is perhaps the only one that is at all widely known.
There was a shop close to Temple Bar, where, in 1834, I had bought some brushes. I had no difficulty in finding Prout's, and I could not do less than go in and buy some more brushes. I did not ask the young man who served me how the old shopkeeper who attended to my wants on the earlier occasion was at this time.
King had discovered that nearly all his house it lay, as you know, next door but one to Prout's in the long range of buildings had unlocked the doors between the dormitories and had gone in to listen to a story told by Crandall. He went to the Head, clamorous, injured, appealing; for he never approved of allowing so-called young men of the world to contaminate the morals of boyhood.
Prout's Store was the centre of the pool, and it was there that the splash and upheaval occurred, and from there the waves of commotion circled and spread to the farthest margins. By supper time it was known from one length of Main Street to the other that the Craig place was tenanted again. As to who the tenant was rumor was vague and indefinite.
Prout's deep voice was added to the discussion. They could hear him pant. "F'what?" Colonel Dabney was growing more and more Irish. "I'm responsible for the boys under my charge." "Ye are, are ye? Then all I can say is that ye set them a very bad example a dam' bad example, if I may say so. I do not own your boys.
"And," said the amateur Shylock, returning to the form-room and dropping at Stalky's side, "if he don't think the house is putrid with it, I'm several Dutch-men that's all... I've been to Mr. Prout's study, sir." This to the prep.-master. "He said I could sit where I liked, sir... Oh, he is just tricklin' with emotion... Yes, sir, I'm only askin' Corkran to let me have a dip in his ink."
Master Prout's demure features ventured as near to a smile at the jest, as his principles would permit, and then approaching the woman, he unfastened the stocks, and allowed her to withdraw the imprisoned members. "Good woman," he said, "thank this noble Knight for thy deliverance, and may this be the last time that these wooden bars shall contract a friendship for thee."
"You've made a pretty average ghastly mess of it, Tulke." "Why why didn't you lick that young devil Beetle before he began jawing?" Tulke wailed. "I knew there'd be a row," said a prefect of Prout's house. "But you would insist on the meeting, Tulke." "Yes, and a fat lot of good it's done us," said Naughten. "They come in here and jaw our heads off when we ought to be jawin' them.
The Judge is "a brother of the angle," as all will allow who have heard him tell Father Prout's story of the bishop and the turbots or heard him sing And how could the lot of the fender-fisherman be happier?
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