“Belay there, hearties! I’ve got the villain. Clap him in irons, I say! He tried to send me over the cliff, but— how are you, my friend? Give us your hand. You’re one of the right sort.—Pull away, boys. The wind’s in the east, and the tide’s swung round the cap. This time to-morrow we shall be scraping the nose of ould Ireland—glory to her!”
The men, who evidently were used to their captain’s eccentricities, made no demur, and laid on with their oars. Presently I volunteered to lend a hand, which was readily accepted. The captain meanwhile lay in a comfortable slumber in the stern-sheets, uttering occasional greetings to the world at large, and to me in particular.
“Where does she lie?” said I presently to the man in front of me in plain English.
He turned round sharply.
“What! you’re not a Frenchman then?” said he.
“Heaven forbid! I’m as good an Irishman as you.”
“How came you to know Captain Keogh?”
“Sure he found me out and engaged me.”
“It’s no lie,” gurgled Captain Keogh from the bottom of the boat. “I should have been over but for him. Enter him as sailing-master or cook, for he’s the right sort.”
“We’re for the Kestrel. She lies a mile or two up the coast, with a cargo for Bantry.”