“What?” interrupted Tony, eying him sternly.
“I was saying, sir, that if your honor was forced to come on to Derry—”
“How should I be forced?”
“By the heavy surf, no less,” said Waters, peevishly, for he foresaw failure to his negotiation.
“The tide will be on the flood till eleven, and if they can't lower a boat, I 'll swim it, that's all. As to going on to Derry with you, Tom,” added he, laughing, “I'd not do it if you were to give me your four thoroughbreds for it.”
“Well, the wind 's freshening, anyhow,” grumbled Waters, not very sorry, perhaps, at the turn the weather was taking.
“It will be the rougher for you as you sail up the Lough,” said Tony, as he lighted his cigar.
Waters pondered a good deal over what he could not but regard as a great change in character. This young man, so gay, so easy, so careless, so ready to do anything or do nothing,—how earnest he had grown, and how resolute, and how stern too! Was this a sign that the world was going well, or the reverse, with him? Here was a knotty problem, and one which, in some form or other, has ere now puzzled wiser heads than Waters's. For as the traveller threw off in the sunshine the cloak which he had gathered round him in the storm, prosperity will as often disclose the secrets of our hearts as that very poverty that has not wealth enough to buy a padlock for them.
“You want to land here, young man,” said the captain to Tony; “and there's a shore-boat close alongside. Be alive, and jump in when she comes near.”
“Good-bye, Tom,” said Tony, shaking hands with him. “I 'll report well of the beasts, and say also how kindly you treated me.”