The boat showed many evidences that the Irish Sea can be savage when it chooses. Everything movable about the decks was carefully lashed down; there were railings and knotted ropes everywhere to cling to; and in the saloon the table-racks were set ready at hand, as though they had just been used, and might be needed again at any moment. But, on this Saturday evening in late May, the sea was in a pleasant, even a jovial, mood, with just enough swell to send a thin shower of spray across the deck from time to time, and lend exhilaration to the rush of the fleet little turbine.
There were many boats in sight—small ones, for the most part, rolling and pitching apparently much worse than we; and then the gathering darkness obscured them one by one, and presently all that was left of them were the bobbing white lights at their mastheads. A biting chill crept into the air, and Betty finally sought refuge from it in the saloon, while I made my way back to the smoking-room, hoping for a friendly pipe with some one.
I was attracted at once by a rosy-faced old priest, sitting at one of the corner tables. He was smoking a black, well-seasoned briar, and he bade me a cheery good-evening as I dropped into the seat beside him.
"You would be from America," he said, watching me as I filled up.
"Yes," I answered. "From Ohio."
"Ah, I know Ohio well," and he looked at me with new interest, "though for many years I have been in Illinois."
"But you were born in Ireland?"
"I was so; near Tuam. I am going back now for a visit."
"Have you been away long?"
"More than thirty years," he said, and took a few reflective puffs.