The night, as I have said, was dark and stormy. It rained too—as it knows only how to rain in Ireland. There was that steady persistence, that persevering monotony of down-pour, which, not satisfied with wetting you to the skin, seems bent upon converting your very blood into water. The wind swept in long and moaning gusts along the bleak pier, which, late and inclement as it was, seemed crowded with people. Scarcely was a rope thrown ashore, when we were boarded on every side, by the rigging, on the shrouds, over the bulwarks, from the anchor to the taffrail; the whole population of the island seemed to flock in upon us; while sounds of welcome and recognition resounded on all sides—
“How are you, Mister Maguire?” “Is the mistress with you?” “Is that you, Mr. Tierney?” “How are you, ma'am?” “And yourself, Tim?” “Beautiful, glory be to God!” “A great passage, entirely, ma'am.” “Nothing but rain since I seen you.” “Take the trunks up to Mrs. Tun-stall; and, Tim, darling, oysters and punch for four.”
“Great mercy!” said I, “eating again!”
“Morrisson, your honour,” said a ragged ruffian, nudging me by the elbow.
“Reilly, sir; isn't it? It's me, sir—the Club. I'm the man always drives your honour.”
“Arrah, howld your prate,” said a deep voice, “the gentleman hasn't time to bless himself.”
“It's me, sir; Owen Daly, that has the black horse.”
“More by token, with a spavin,” whispered another; while a roar of laughter followed the joke.
“A car, sir—take you up in five minutes.”