I took my red scarf, and fixing it on the end of the sword, waved it defiantly at the receding ship. Whether it was seen or not, or whether, if seen, it was understood by those who alone would be likely to understand it, I could not say.
I was about to return to Malin when a thin curl of smoke from behind a rock advised me that there was at least one human habitation within reach, where it might be possible to get information. It was a wretched mud hovel backing on to the rock—its roof of sods being held at the corners by stones—and boasting no window, only the door out of which the smoke was pouring.
An old man, with the stump of a clay pipe in his lips, was turning his pig out to grass as I approached. He looked at me suspiciously, and went on without replying to my salutation.
“Good-morrow, father,” said I. “You’ve had a ship in overnight, I see.”
“Like enough,” replied he in Irish. “Thrt—thrt!” and he gave the pig a switch.
“Was she English?” I asked.
“’Deed I know nothing of her,” said he with a cunning look which convinced me he was lying.
“What does she carry?” I continued, playing with the butt of the pistol in my belt.
He was quick enough to notice this gentle hint.
“Bad luck to the ship!” said he; “she’s no concern of mine. What are you looking for? The trade brings me no good.”