“I’d like to remind you, young man———.” The words came with a quiet drawl from the passenger in the bow.
Maurice stopped rowing, and turned round.
“Well, what do you want to say? More insolence? Better be careful unless you want to try what it feels like to swim ashore.”
“I’d like to remind you, young man, that Captain Hercules Getty, of the State of Pennsylvania, who commands the brig ‘Saratoga,’ belongs to a nation which has fought for liberty and won it.”
“What’s that got to do with his insolence?”
“I reckon that an Irishman who hasn’t fought and hasn’t won ought to sing small when he’s dealing with a citizen of the United States of America.”
Neal turned in his seat. The stranger’s reproach struck him as being unjust as well as being in bad taste. Maurice St. Clair was the son of a man who had done something for Ireland.
“You don’t know who you’re talking to,” he said, “or what you’re talking about. Lord Dunseveric, the father of the man in front of you, commanded the North Antrim Volunteers, and did his part in winning the independence of our Parliament.”
The stranger looked steadily at Neal for sometime. Then he said—
“Is your name Neal Ward?”