All evening I had been thinking about her, and the words of welcome which I would say to her when we met. When she came on deck I put out my hand, but couldn't for the life of me say a word of greeting. She was the first to speak.
"Dermod Flynn, I hardly knew ye at all," she said with a half-smile on her lips. "Ye got very big these last two years."
"So did you, Norah," I answered, feeling very glad because she had kept count of the time I was gone. "You are almost as tall as I am."
"Why wouldn't I be as tall as ye are," she answered with a full smile. "Sure am I not a year and two months older?"
Some of the other women began to talk to Norah, and I turned to look at the scene around me. The sun was setting, and showed like a red bladder in the pink haze that lay over the western horizon. The Foyle was a sheet of wavy molten gold which the boat cut through as she sped out from the pier. The upper deck was crowded with people who were going to Scotland to work for the summer and autumn. They were all very ragged, both women and men; most of the men were drunk, and they discussed, quarrelled, argued, and swore until the din was deafening. Little heed was taken by them of the beauty of the evening, and all alone I watched the vessel turn up a furrow of gold at the bow until my brain was reeling with the motion of the water that sobbed past the sides of the steamer, and swept far astern where the line of white churned foam fell into rank with the sombre expanse of sea that we were leaving behind.
Many of the passengers were singing songs of harvestmen, lovers, cattle-drovers, and sailors. One man, a hairy, villainous-looking fellow, stood swaying unsteadily on the deck with a bottle of whisky in one hand, and roaring out "Judy Brannigan."
"Oh! Judy Brannigan, ye are me darlin',
Ye are me lookin' glass from night till mornin'—
I'd rather have ye without wan farden,
Than Shusan Gallagheer with her house and garden."