“So you are Barry?” he demanded.
“I am,” said I.
“And you’d like to be a sailor?”
“No,” I retorted. It was a lie, but I would be under no favour to his honour.
His honour grunted, and talked in a low voice to my father, who presently said to me,—
“Take the turnips to Joe Callan’s, in Derry, on the Ship Quay. Wait till dark before you go into the city. Tell him there’s more where these came from.”
“Is it guns you mane?” said I.
“Hold your tongue, you limb of darkness,” growled my father. “It’s turnips. If any one asks you, mind you know nothing, and never heard of his honour in your life.”
By which I understood this was a very secret errand, and like enough to land me in Derry Jail before all was done. Had I not been impatient to see my father and his honour away to Fanad, I think I should have made excuses. But I durst not say another word, and with a heavy heart clambered to the top of the turnips and started on my long journey.
Before I had passed the hill I could see the white sail of our little boat dancing through the broken water of the lough, and knew that my father and Mr Gorman were on their way to set my mother’s mind at rest. In the midst of my trouble and ill-humour I smiled to think what a poor figure his honour would have cut trying to make Fanad in that wind. My father could sail in the teeth of anything, and some day folk would be able to say the same of his son Barry.