church, an’ mugs-up in the woods widout comin’ home, an’ when we gets back to the harbor, maybe a few minutes afore sun-down, little Patsy Burke gives us the word as how Dick Lynch went off wid a gun, swearin’ by the whole assembly of heaven as how he’d be blowin’ yer heart out o’ ye the minute he clapped eye on ye.  An’ then, skipper dear, Pat Kavanagh’s girl Mary comes a-runnin’ wid word as how Dick Lynch t’iefed a bottle o’ rum from Pat himself and was brow-sprit under wid the glory of it an’ fit to take a shot—­except for the aim of him—­at Saint Peter himself.  She telled as how he’d shaped his course to the south’ard, with his gun on his shoulder, swearin’ he’d blow the head off ye or never come home to Chance Along no more.  So Nick an’ me puts two an’ two forninst each other an’ figgered as how Dick would have ye if somethin’ didn’t happen to t’row out his plans.”

“Ye bain’t got the right o’ it there, Bill,” said Nick. “’Twas Mary telled us to follow after Dick Lynch.  She’d gone herself, she said, but she’d heard o’ it no more’n a minute ago from Pat, her bein’ over to the skipper’s house an’ tryin’ to cheer up the lady what come off the wrack!  ‘Save the skipper,’ says Mary, the eyes o’ her like lumps o’ ice on the coast in June.  ’Save him from the drunk dog wid the gun, even if it bes the death o’ yerselves.’  Aye, that bes what Mary Kavanagh said to us—­an’ here we bes, skipper.”

“Mary bes a good girl,” said the skipper.  Then he laughed harshly and slapped Bill Brennen on the back.

“Me brains bes still in me head an’ me hands on the ends o’ me two arms,” he exclaimed; “but what bes happenin’ to Dick Lynch, I wonder?  If ever he comes back—­but he’ll not dare!  Aye, ye kin lay to that.  He’d as soon jump into hell wid the divil as come back now to Chance Along.  Maybe he’ll be losin’ himself like Foxey Jack Quinn went an’ done wid himself.  Aye, lads, fools kin tell as how me luck bes gone—­but the saints themselves bes wid me, drivin’ me enemies out o’ Chance Along widout me so much as havin’ to kill one o’ them!”

“Sure, skipper, it looks that way, an’ no mistake,” said Bill Brennen.  “The saints be wid ye for the kind heart ye has for helpless women an’ childer, an’ for yer love o’ Father McQueen, an’ for the work ye bes at to build the little church; but most of all, skipper, for the kind heart o’ ye to every helpless woman an’ child.”

A scowl, or was it a shadow, crossed Black Dennis Nolan’s face at that.

“Sure, a kind heart bes a grand t’ing,” he said,—­“and so bes sharp wits an’ hard hands!”

They turned and went down the path.  Mother Nolan met the skipper just inside the door, with the big wooden spoon from the stew-pot dripping in her hand.  Her black eyes looked blacker and keener than usual as they met those of her grandson.

“So here ye be, safe back from Witless Bay,” she said.  “Ye didn’t waste a minute, Denny.”

“Sure I didn’t,” returned the skipper, quickly.  “It beed fair weather an’ fair goin’ all the way an’ one little letter bain’t much o’ a pack to tote.  How be ye all, Granny?  How bes the lass from the wrack?”