“I’ll not be havin’ any,” said the old woman, who nevertheless put out her hand, caught the bottle and raised it to her lips. “It’s a nice drop this,” she said, when she had swallowed several mouthfuls, “but I’m not goin’ to drink any of it. I’m only just tastin’ it.”
“If it was my bottle I’d be content if ye only just smelt it,” said Eamon Doherty, with a dry laugh.
“Dermod Flynn had one great fight in Tyrone,” said Micky’s Jim after draining some of the liquor. “Gave his master one in the guts and knocked him as sick as a dog.”
“Get away!”
“So he was sayin’. Dermod Flynn, come here and give an account of yerself.”
The young fellow, who was watching the waves slide past the side of the vessel, came forward when Micky’s Jim called him.
“Give an account of yerself, Dermod Flynn,” Jim cried. “Did ye not knock down yer boss with one in the guts? That was the thing to do; that’s what a Glenmornan man should do. I mind once when I was coal humpin’ on the Greenock Docks——”
And without waiting for an answer to his question, Jim narrated the story of a fight which had once taken place between himself and a Glasgow sailor.
The sun, red as a live coal, was sinking towards the west, the murmur, powerful and gentle, of a trembling wind could be heard overhead; a white, ghostly mist stole down from the shore on either side and spread far out over the waters. The waves lapped against the side of the vessel with short, sudden splashes, and the sound of the labouring screw could be heard pulsing loudly through the air. A black trail of smoke spread out behind; a flight of following gulls, making little apparent effort, easily kept pace with the vessel.
“They will follow us to Scotland,” said Maire a Glan, pointing at the birds with a long claw-like finger.