Getting the bottle between his eyes and the morning sun, he screwed his visage up into myriads of wrinkles, and exclaimed—
“Sure there is something in it.”
Straightway the Irishman hurried up to his own cabin, where his own wife, a stout pretty woman in a red cloak, assisted him to reach the conclusion that there was something mysterious in the bottle, which was at all events not drinkable.
“Oh, then, I’ll smash it.”
“Do, darlint.”
No sooner said than done, for Pat brought it down on the hearthstone with such force that it was shivered to atoms.
Of course his wife seized the bit of paper, and tried to read it, unsuccessfully. Then Pat tried to read it, also unsuccessfully. Then they both tried to read it, turning it in every conceivable direction, and holding it at every possible distance from their eyes, but still without success. Then they came to the conclusion that they could “make nothing of it at all at all,” which was not surprising, for neither of them could read a word.
They wisely resolved at length to take it to their priest, who not only read it, but had it inserted in the Times on the week following, and also in the local papers of Wreckumoft.
Thus did Mrs Gaff, at long last, come to learn something of her husband and son. Her friends kindly told her she need not entertain any hope whatever, but she heeded them not; and only regarding the message from the sea as in some degree a confirmation of her hopes and expectations, she continued her preparations for the reception of the long absent ones with more energy than ever.