I
A heavy fall of rain came with the dawn, and the Clyde was a dreary smudge of grey when the boat made fast alongside Greenock Quay and discharged its passengers. Again the derricks began to creak complainingly on their pivots; a mob of excited cattle streamed up the narrow gangways, followed by swearing drovers, who prodded the dewlaps and hindquarters of the animals with their short, heavy blackthorn sticks.
A tall, thin man, somewhat over middle age, with bushy beard, small penetrating eyes and wrinkles between the eyebrows, met the squad as they disembarked. He bade good-morning to Micky’s Jim just as if he had seen him the night before, and in a loud, hurried voice gave him several orders as to what he had to do during the summer season at the digging. The tall, thin man was the potato-merchant.
“How many have ye with ye from Ireland?” he asked Micky’s Jim.
Although knowing the number of men it contained, Jim, with an air of importance, began to count the members of the squad, carefully enumerating each person by name.
“Get your squad to work as soon as you can,” said the merchant, his Adam’s apple bobbing in and out with every movement of his throat. He gave Jim no time to finish the count. “I see you’re three or four short of last year—four, isn’t it? There’s some people waitin’ for a start over there, so you’d better take a few of them with you.”
Opposite the squad a dozen or more men and women stood, looking on eagerly, all of them shivering with the cold and the water dripping from their rags. These Jim approached with a very self-conscious swagger and entered into conversation with the women, who began to speak volubly.
“What’s wrong with them?” asked Dermod Flynn, and Maire a Glan, to whom he addressed the question, drew a snuff-box from her pocket and took a pinch.
“They’re lookin’ for a job, as the man said,” she answered and her teeth chattered as she spoke.
“When do we start our work?” asked Norah Ryan.