"Get these poor fellows home as soon as possible. Their clothes are dripping wet, and they'll catch their death of cold."
True, indeed, there were little pools of water in the hall where the shipwrecked fishermen were standing.
As we turned to go in, whilst the crowd dispersed, Jem Deady took occasion to whisper:—
"Look here, your reverence, 't was all dhrink."
Jem had kept his pledge for six weeks, and by virtue thereof assumed all the privileges of a reformer.
It was a dread ending of the day's business, and it came with crushing effect on the soul of Father Letheby. They were bad omens,—the revolt at the factory and the destruction of the boat. We remained for hours talking the thing over, whilst my thoughts ran away to the happy girl who was just then speeding from Kingstown on her bridal tour. I followed her in imagination through smoky England to sunny France. I saw her, leaning on her husband, as he led her from church to church, from gallery to gallery, in the mediæval cities of the Continent; I saw her cross from the Riviera into Italy, and I realized her enthusiasm as she passed, mute and wonder-stricken, from miracle to miracle of art and faith, in that happy home of Catholicism. I could think of her even kneeling at the feet of the Supreme Pontiff whilst she begged a special blessing on her father, and he, rolling with the tide, a dead mass in ooze and slime, and uncouth monsters swimming around him in curiosity and fear, and his hands clutching the green and purple algæ of the deep.
Some one asked:—
"Was the boat insured?"
"No," said Father Letheby. "We were but waiting the result of her trial trip to make that all right."
"Then the committee are responsible for the whole thing?"