“Risking too much?” said Davy. “There’s only three of them.”
The first bell rang on the steamer; it was quarter to nine o’clock. Willie Quarrie looked out at the window. The “Snaefell” was lying by the red pier in the harbor, getting up steam, and sending clouds of smoke over the old “Imperial.” Cars were rattling up the quay, passengers were making for the gangways, and already the decks, fore and aft, were thronged with people.
“Come along, my lad; look slippy,” cried Davy, “only two bells more, and three hampers still to pack. Tumble them in—here goes.”
“Capt’n!” said Willie, still looking out.
“What?” said Davy.
“Don’t cross by the ferry, Capt’n.”
“Why not?”
“They’re all waiting for you,” said Willie, “every dirt of them all is waiting by the steps—there’s Tommy Tubman, and Billy Balla-Slieau, and that wastrel of a churchwarden—yes, and there’s ould Kennish—they’re all there. Deng my buttons, all of them. They’re thinking to crow over us, Capt’n. Don’t cross by the ferry. Let me run for a car. Then we’ll slip up by the bridge yonder, and down the quay like a mill race, and up to the gangway like smook, and abooard in a jiffy. That’s it—yes, I’ll be off immadient, and we’ll bate the blackguards anyway.”
Willie was seizing his cap to carry out his intention of going for a cab in order that his master might be spared the humiliation of passing through the line of false friends who had gathered at the ferry steps to see the last of him; but Davy shouted “Stop,” and pointed to the hampers still unpacked.
“I’m broke,” said he, “and what matter who knows it? Reminds me, sir,” said Davy to Lovibond, “of Parson Cowan. The ould man lived up Andreas way, and after sarvice he’d be saying, ‘Boys let’s put a sight on the Methodees,’ and they’d be taking a slieu round to the chapel door. Then as the people came out he’d be offering his snuff-boxes all about. ‘William, how do? have a pinch?’ ‘Ah, Robbie, fine evening; take a sneeze?’ ‘Is that you, Tommy? I haven’t another box in my clothes, but if you’ll put your finger and thumb into my waistcoat pocket here, you’ll find some dust.’ Aw, yes, a reglar up-and-a-down-er, Parson Cowan, as aisy, as aisy, and no pride at all. But he had his wakeness same as a common man, and it was the Plow Inn at Ramsey. One day he was going out of it middling full—not fit to walk the crank anyway—when who should be coming up the street from the court-house but the Bishop! It was Bishop—Bishop—chut, his name’s gone at me—but no matter, glum as a gur-goyle anyway, and straight as a lamppost—a reglar steeple-up-your-back sort of a chap. Ould Mrs. Beatty saw him, and she lays a hould of Parson Cowan and starts awkisking him back into the house, and through into the parlor where the chiney cups is. ‘You mustn’t go out yet,’ the ould woman was whispering. ‘It’s the Bishop. And him that sevare—it’s shocking! He’ll surspend you! And think what they’ll be saying! A parson, too! Hush, sir hush! Don’t spake! You’ll be waiting till it’s dark, and then going home with John in the bottom of the cart, and nice clane straw to lie on, and nobody knowing nothing.’ But the ould man wouldn’t listen. He drew hisself up on the ould woman tremenjous, and studdied hisself agen the door, and ‘No,’ says he; ‘I’m drunk,’ says he, ‘God knows it,’ says he, ‘and for what man knows I don’t care a damn—I’ll walk!’ Then away he went down the street past the Bishop, with his hat a-one side, and his hair all through-others, tacking a bit with romps in the fetlock joints, but driving on like mad.”—