A few hours after she had entered the Mersey the _Saga_ sailed out again, and stood down the Irish Sea, with Breeze McCloud as her only passenger. Had he been a young prince he could not have travelled more luxuriously. Sitting alone in the beautiful saloon, and surrounded by all its luxury, it was with a curious sensation that he traced the wonderful chain of events that had led him from the forecastle of the old fishing schooner _Vixen_ to this exquisitely appointed yacht. The following day the _Saga_ steamed into the magnificent harbor of Queenstown, ran up past the forts, and dropped anchor near a huge American steamer, just in from New York, that was sending ashore her mails and a number of passengers. These, and those who remained on board the great steamer, gazed with admiration at the dainty yacht, and many of them cast envious glances at the young man standing on her bridge, whom they imagined to be her owner. Breeze waited until after dinner before leaving the yacht. Then he was set ashore in the gig, which Mr. Marlin said would be sent for him whenever he should come down to the landing and blow the shrill little silver whistle that he loaned him. Breeze had no sooner stepped ashore than he was surrounded by a clamorous throng of men, who wanted him to ride in a jaunting-car, or take a carriage for the Queen’s hotel, who would show him all the sights of the city, including the new cathedral, for a shilling, or would serve him in any way he chose to name. Now, for the first time Breeze remembered that he had not a cent of money in his pockets, and anxious to get rid of his noisy persecutors, he pushed his way through the crowd as quickly as possible, without paying any regard to where he was going. He did not wholly escape the attentions showered upon him, for one old woman succeeded in thrusting a bit of shamrock into a button-hole of his coat, and evidently expected to be paid for so doing. Breeze thanked her politely, but did not succeed in getting rid of her, until he had walked rapidly through several short, steep, and remarkably dirty streets, when he found himself in the main business street of the city. [Illustration: THOSE ON BOARD THE GREAT STEAMER GAZED WITH ADMIRATION AT THE DAINTY YACHT.] Here he asked a man if he could tell him where Mr. Brady’s store was. “Is it Mike Brady the tinman, yer honor ’ll be wantin’ to find? or Pat that kapes the grane-grocery? or mayhap ’tis Tim the alderman who has no thrade at all, excipt for the bit of law he do pick up?” Breeze said he did not think it was any of these, for the one he wanted to find sold linen. “Thin ’tis Peter the Squire you’ll be manin’; and by the same token, his is the shop f’ninst ye, across the way.” Breeze afterwards learned that, having held some small political office, Wolfe’s father had been dignified by his fellow-townsmen with the title of “Squire.” He was very proud of this, and always insisted upon being addressed by it.