Still the church-bells rang, the fog-horn blew and Stowell stepped lightly through the dark streets of the little town. He passed the new Methodist chapel with the dark figure of the pew-opener against the coloured glass screen of the vestibule; the barracks, with the sentinel pacing outside and a number of red-coated soldiers in a bare room within, smoking and playing cards. The market-square was ablaze with light from the windows of the church (the same at which Bessie had kept Oie'l Verree) and the shadowy forms of the congregation were passing in at the porch.
At length he reached the quay with its smell of rock-salt and tar. The Dan O'Connell was lying under the Castle gates, lazily getting up steam, and the Captain was smoking by the gangway.
"Everything right, Captain?"
"Everything, Sir."
"Will the fog interfere?"
"Not a ha'porth, yer Honour."
"What about the Harbour-master?"
"In church with the wife, but I'm to have supper with him after the sarvice and take a bottle of something."
"And the Turnkey?"
"Blind polatic at the 'Manx Arms,' Sir."