The skipper sprang to his feet, staring at her with a blank face and with defiance in his eyes.
"A letter!" he exclaimed, huskily. "No, by hell! Let 'em t'ink what they wants to! Bain't Chance Along good enough for her?"
CHAPTER XI
THE SKIPPER CARRIES A LETTER
Mary Kavanagh paled, flushed again, and lowered her eyes. Old Mother Nolan turned a searching glance upon her grandson—a glance with derision and something of pity in it.
"An' how would Chance Along be good enough for the likes o' her?" said she. "Denny Nolan, bes ye a fool entirely? Good enough for her, says ye—an' her singin' like a lark afore the young Queen herself, saints presarve her, wid the Prince an' the dukes a-settin' round in their grand gold crowns, a-t'rowin' roses an' jewels at her little feet! What bes Chance Along to her—aye, an' any poor soul in it? We've give her life back to her, Denny, me lad, an' now we'll give herself back to the grand world o' up-along, where great singers bes nigh the same as great ladies, as I have heard me own grandfather tell, who was once in Dublin a-holdin' the gentry's horses at the play-house door."
The skipper glared straight before him, then sank into his chair.
"I'll pen no letter," he said, "I swears it by the knuckle-bones o' the holy saints!"
Mother Nolan turned to Mary, wagging her head.