Chapter 20 - Page 2

fine marnin', yer honour," he began, with a self-possession that
nothing could disturb, though it was some time past noon, and the day was
anything but such a one as a seaman likes. "A fine marnin', yer honour,
and _as_ fine a ship! Is it fish that yer honour will be asking for?"

"I will take some of your fish, my friend, and pay you well for them."

"Long life to yees!"

"I was about to say, I will pay you much better if you can show me any
lee, hereabouts, which has good holding-ground, where a ship might ride
out the gale that is coming."

"Shure yer honour!--will I _not_? Shure, there's nivver the lad on the
coost, that knows betther what it is yer honour wants, or who'll supply
yees, with half the good will."

"Of course you know the coast; probably were born hereabouts?"

"Of coorse, is it? Whereabouts should Terence O' something, be born, if
it's not hereabouts? Is it know the coost, too? Ah, we're ould
acquaintances."

"And where do you intend to take the ship, Terence?"

"It's houlding ground, yer honour asked for?"

"Certainly.--A bottom on which an anchor will not drag."

"Och! is it _that_? Well, _all_ the bottom in this counthry is of that
same natur'. None of it will drag, without pulling mighty hard. I'll swear
to any part of it."

"You surely would not think of anchoring a ship out here, a league from
the land, with nothing to break either wind or sea, and a gale
commencing?"

"I anchor! Divil the bit did I ever anchor a ship, or a brig, or even a
cutther. I've not got so high up as that, yer honour: but yon's ould
Michael Sweeny, now; many's the anchor he's cast out, miles at a time,
sayin' he's been a sayman, and knows the says from top to bottom. It's
Michael ye'll want, and Michael ye shall have."

Michael was spoken to, and he clambered up out of the boat, as well as he
could; the task not being very easy, since the fishermen with difficulty
kept their dull, heavy boat out of our mizen chains. In the mean time,
Marble and I found time to compare notes. We agreed that Mr. Terence
McScale, or O' something,--for I forget the fellow's surname,--would
probably turn out a more useful man in hauling in mackerel and John Dorys,
than in helping us to take care of the Dawn. Nor did Michael, at the first
glance promise anything much better. He was very old,--eighty. I should
think,--and appeared to have nullified all the brains he ever had, by the
constant use of whiskey; the scent of which accompanied him with a sort of
parasitical odour, as that of tannin attends the leather-dresser. He was
not drunk just then,