Gulls’ eggs were found in great quantity on the cliffs, and the discovery and capture of wild pigs added to the luxury of their table—which latter, by the way, was an ingenious contrivance of Joe Slag. Binding four sticks together in the form of a stout oblong frame, Joe had covered this—filled it in as it were—with straight branches about a finger thick, laid side by side and tied to the frame. This he fixed on four posts driven into the ground, and thus formed an excellent, if not an elegant, table.
One morning at breakfast, Terrence O’Connor was observed to be unusually busy with a large hook.
“Are you goin’ to fish for sharks to-day?” asked Slag.
“Faix, no; it’s to the woods I’ll go fishin’ to-day, Joe. Now, Nell, gi’ me the stoutest line ye’ve got on hand, mavourneen.”
“Will that do? I made it the other day specially for sharks—or whales!” said Nellie, with a light laugh, for she expected him to reject the line she held up.
“The very thing, Nell. Hand it over. Now, boys, I’m off to try my luck i’ the woods, for I’m gittin’ tired o’ the say.”
O’Connor went off alone, bestowing a mysterious wink on Peggy Mitford as he left.
The Irishman had observed that the wild pigs were particularly fond of a certain root which was plentiful in a valley about three miles distant from the hut. Repairing to that valley, he dug up one of the roots, baited his hook with it, hung it from a low branch to attract attention, fastened the other end of the line to a tree, and went off to hide and bide his time. Before half-an-hour had elapsed, a gay young pig visited the scene of its former festivities, saw the pendent bait, smelt it, took it in its mouth, and straightway filled the woods with frantic lamentations. The struggle between the Irishman and that pig was worthy of record, but we prefer leaving it to the reader’s imagination. The upshot was, that the pig was overcome, carried—bound, and shrieking—to the hut, and tamed by Peggy. In a short time, other pigs were caught and tamed. So, also, were rabbits. These bred and multiplied. The original pig became the mother of a large family, and in a short time something like the sounds and aspects of a farm began to surround the old hut. Still further—by means of the cast-iron pot, which already boiled their soup and their soap—they managed to boil sea-water down into salt, and with this some of the pigs were converted into salt pork—in short, the place began to assume the appearance of a busy and thriving backwoods settlement.
“It’s risin’ tide with us again, after a fashion, Nell,” said the coxswain to his wife, as they stood one evening on the sea-shore watching the sunset.
Nellie sighed. “It is, Bob,” she said, “and I’m very thankful; but—but I’d rather be at home in Old England among kith and kin, even though the tide was low!”