“Out of the way there!” “All ashore!” “Ready?” “Ready!” “Steam up—slow!” The last bell rang. The first stroke of nine was struck by the clock of the tower; one echoing blast came from the steam whistle, and the “Snaefell” began to move slowly from the quay. Then there were shouts from the deck and adieus from the shore. “Good-by!” “Good-by!” “Farewell, little Mona!” “Good-by, dear Elian Vannin!” Handkerchiefs waving on the steamer; handkerchiefs waving on the quay; seagulls wheeling over the stern; white churning water in the wake; flag down; and harbor empty.
“She’s gone!”
Lovibond smiled behind a handkerchief, with which he pretended to wipe his big mustache. Willie Quarrie looked helplessly up the ferry steps. Davy gnashed his teeth at the top of them.
After a moment Davy said, “No matter; we can take the Irish packet at nine, and catch the Pacific boat at Belfast. Willie,” he shouted, “put the luggage in the shed for the Belfast steamer. We’ll sail to-night instead.”
Then the three parted company, each with his own reflections.
“The Capt’n done that a-purpose,” thought Willie.
“He’ll keep my engagement for me at eight o’clock,” thought Lovibond.
“I wouldn’t have believed it of her if the Dempster himself had swore to it,” thought Davy.