The weather was grey and rough, and we asked the boatmen their opinion of it as we crept along in the shelter of the western shore of the bay, as close as possible to the seaweedy points of rock, the chosen playgrounds of the seals.
“There’s not much wind, but what there is is very high,” said the stroke. “Faith, it’s hardly we’ll get
“EIGHT O’CLOCK BREAKFAST, PLEASE, AND CALL US SHARP AT SEVEN.”
over to Delphi with the surges that’ll be in it when we’ll be out in the big wather.”
“Ah, na boclish!” struck in the bow, who, judging by his glowing complexion, was of the sanguine temperament. “I’d say it’ll turn up a grand day yet. What signifies the surges that’ll be in it?”
We began to think it signified a good deal when, after a pull of nearly two miles, we forsook the shore, and, turning out into the open water, met the full and allied strength of the wind and tide. The “surges” were quite as large as any that we want to see, and the progress of the boat was like a succession of knight’s moves at chess, two strokes towards the Delphi shore, and one stroke to bring her head to the advancing “surge.” Naturally, we took a long time to get across, and when we got there we had still a walk of two miles before us; only that it really did “turn up a grand day” our hearts would have failed us, as we felt the hours slipping from us, and remembered the journey that was before us in the afternoon.