The sea breeze blew, bringing with it the crowning delight of the cliff-top—the smell of the sea; the smell of a thousand leagues of waves, the smell of seaweed from the shore, the smell that men knew and loved a thousand years ago, the smell which is freedom distilled into perfume and the remembrance of which makes us turn each year from the land and seek the sea.
"Moriarty," said the child, "where are those ships going to?"
"Which ships?" asked Moriarty.
"Those ships with the brown sails to them."
"Limerick," replied Moriarty, without raising an eye from the job he was on, or knowing in the least which way the ships were going, or whether Limerick was by the sea or inland. Moriarty had a theory that one answer was as good as another for a child as long as you satisfied it, and the easiest answer was the best, because it gave you the least trouble. Moriarty was not an educationist; indeed, his own education was of the slightest.
"Why are they going to Limerick?" demanded Miss French.
"Why are they goin' to where?" asked Moriarty, speaking like a man in a reverie and whittling away with his knife at the stick.
"Limerick."
"Sure, what else would they be goin' for but to buy cods' heads?"
"Why?" asked Miss French, who felt this answer to be both bizarre and unsatisfactory.