"I wouldn't trust," said Stowell.
Insensibly he had dropped into the Anglo-Manx. He was trying to find some excuse for remaining.
"It'll be a middlin' cold drive home, old friend—couldn't you make me a cup of coffee?"
"With pleasure, Sir," said the jailer. And while the old man stirred the peats and hung the kettle on the slowrie, Stowell, listening at the same time to the voices without (the husky brogue of the Irish Captain and the guttural croaking of the half-tipsy harbour-master) got him to tell the story of his appointment.
"It was thirty years ago, when I was coachman at Ballamoar in the 'Stranger's' days—a wonderful kind woman your mother was, Sir."
"Hurry up, boys. Bear a hand with that crank"—the swing-bridge was being opened; the steamer was to go out in spite of the fog.
"I used to be taking her for drives in the morning, and it was always 'Thank you, Mr. Vondy! A beautiful drive, Mr. Vondy!' Aw, gentry, Sir, gentry born!"
"Damn your eyes, let go that forrard rope"—the Captain was on the bridge.
"We had a young Irish mare in them days, Sir, and coming home one morning in harvest, not more than a month before your Honour was born, Illiam Christian (he was always a toot was Illiam) started his new reaper in the road field just as we were passing the Nappin, and the mare bolted."
"Why the divil don't you take in the slack of that starn rope? Do you want me to come down and dump you overboard?"—the funnels had ceased to roar and the paddles were plashing.