"That, mem, is Detour, our first shtop. Within the hour we'll be there, and—"
"Well?"
"—and there," said Norah Brannigan, with a nod and a significant closing of her left optic, "is where we give him the shlip."
"Oh, we can't! we can't!" cried Margaret, in despair. "Don't you know that he will be on the watch for everybody that leaves the boat? If there was only somebody there to help us!" Margaret groaned. "But alone—"
"Sure, mem, and there is."
"Who?"
"Michael Callaghan."
"And who is Michael Callaghan?"
"A dock hand at Detour,—and as foine a b'y as ye cud wush to see." Then with a very conscious look on her honest face, "And what Michael Callaghan wuddent do for Norah Brannigan—why, mem, it can't be done! Now, set down here on the berth, darlint, and let me tell ye me plan."