“I wouldn’t say,” he said at last, “but they’re gone out of it, every one of the whole lot of them.”
Peter Walsh, his paint brush in his hand, and an expression of respectful regret, on his face, came up to Sir Lucius and touched his hat.
“What’s the meaning of this?” said Sir Lucius. “Didn’t I send you word to have a boat, either my own or some other, ready for me at twelve?”
“The message the sergeant gave me,” said Peter Walsh, “was to engage Joseph Antony Kinsella’s boat for your honour if so be that Miss Priscilla had your own took out.”
“And why the devil didn’t you?” said Lord Torrington.
“Because she’s not in it, your honour; nor hasn’t been this day. I was waiting for her and the minute she came to the quay I’d have been in her, helping Joseph Antony to shovel out the gravel the way she’d be fit for two gentlemen like yourselves to go in her.”
“Is there no other boat to be got?” said Lord Torrington.
“Launch Miss Priscilla’s at once,” said Sir Lucius.
“Sure the paint’s wet on the bottom of her.”
“Launch her,” said Sir Lucius, “paint or not paint.”