CHAPTER XIII
It rained steadily from Monday afternoon till Thursday morning, and then, as if at the stroke of a great broom, the clouds broke up and were driven in piles over the hills, leaving the sky winter-blue and free; cloud shadow and sunshine chased one another over the land, and from the cliffs the sea lay foam-capped and in great meadows of different colour. It had blown half a gale on Tuesday night, and the sea was fretting from it still. Acres of tourmaline-coloured water showed where the "deeps" lay close in shore, and each glass-green roller came running in, capped with foam and shot through with sunlight till——
Boom!
A league-long burst of spray told of its death, and from far and near came the sound, the breathing of the coast, like the breathing of a leviathan in its sleep.
It was dark when the train from Dublin drew in at the station of Cloyne, and Mr. French and his companion found the outside car waiting for them in charge of Buck Slane.
Buck was a helper in the stable, a weedy-looking individual in leggings, with a high, piping voice, red-rimmed eyes, and an apologetic manner. When Buck spoke to you on any subject, he seemed to be apologising for it, as though it were something that had to be mentioned or spoken about against his will.
"Where's Moriarty, and why didn't he come with the car?" asked Mr. French.
"Plaze, sorr," said Buck, "Moriarty's stuck in the stable."
"Stuck in the where?"