Ralph was a young Englishman in every sense of the word—tall, broad, shapely, somewhat slow in action, with difficulty aroused, but a very lion when he did march out of his den intent on a purpose.
Somewhat more youthful was Rory, smaller as to person, poetic as to temperament, fond of the beautiful, an artist and a musician. And if you were to ask me, “Was he, too, brave?” I should answer, “Are not poets and Irishmen always brave? Does not Sir Walter Scott tell us that they laugh in their ranks as they go forward to battle—that they—
“Move to death with military glee?”
Sir Walter, I may also remind those who live in the land o’ cakes, says in the same poem:
“But ne’er in battlefield throbbed heart more brave
Than that which beats beneath the Scottish plaid.”
So now we are back again at the place where we left off in the last chapter, with the yacht being towed slowly past good Ralph’s ship on the stocks, and lusty cheers being exchanged from one vessel to the other.
Rory and Allan exchanged glances. The faces of each were at that moment a study for a physiognomist, but the uppermost feeling visible in either was one of astonishment—not blank astonishment, mind you, for there was something in the eyes of each, and in the smile that flickered round their lips, that would have told you in a moment that Ralph’s nicely-kept secret was a secret no more. Rory, as usual with natives of green Erin, was the first to break the silence.
“Depend upon it,” he said, nodding his head mirthfully, “it is all some mighty fine joke of Ralph’s, and he means giving us a pleasant surprise.”
“The same thought struck me,” replied Allan, “as soon as I clapped eyes on the word ‘Arrandoon.’”