“Very good. I’ll see to Barry then.”
“Och, father,” I cried, “take me to sea.”
“Howld your tongue, ye puppy,” said my father. “Can’t you hear his honour say he’ll see to you? There’s many a lad would be glad of the chance.”
“But Tim hates the sea, and I—”
“Be silent wid ye,” roared my father, so angrily that he woke Tim.
“Tim,” cried I, determined to make one more desperate effort, “you’re to go to sea, and I’m to be kept ashore at Knockowen.”
“Sea, is it?” roared Tim. “I’ll run away—no sea for me.”
“And I’ll run away too,” shouted I. “No Knockowen for me.”
But it was of no avail; protest as we would, we had to do as we were bid. That very hour, with nothing but a little book that was once my mother’s, and a few poor clothes, and Con the dog at my heels, I followed his honour down to the boat and left my old home behind me. And before dawn of day Tim was trudging surlily at my father’s heels across country, on his way to join the Cigale at Sheep Haven.