"You are sure she is a schooner?"
"Yes, with masts raking well aft."
"All black in the hull, with slender spars and double topsails?"
"Sure as I now spake to yer honour," replied our informant, who was an Irish fisherman and squatter; "her crew have let go both anchors to make all snug, and gone in a gang to enjoy themselves, or rob—which you plaze—I suppose it's all one to them, at La Scie; bad luck to them, and may the devil fly away with them all!"
"Are they all gone?"
"All except six rapparees, whom I could count from the bush where I was hiding."
"Six—left as a deck-watch, I suppose?"
"Just so; yer honour's right again."
"How long have you lived here?" I inquired, for his brogue was as strong as if he had only left his native Kerry yesterday.
"I have lived here, plaze yer honor, five-and-forty years this last St. Patrick's Day, and have niver had an hour's illness, glory be to God!"