Morning came with a haze lying on the blue hills, and a fitful breeze: the best fishing day yet, Patsy pronounced it, as he shouldered a gigantic luncheon-basket and led the way down the avenue and along the dusty high road. They struck across the bog presently, following a path that led through a tangle of the sweet bog-myrtle; and, in a little harbour of smooth grey stones at the western end of Lough Nacurra, came upon their boat, half-concealed among the rushes fringing the water’s edge. The lough was a long narrow sheet of water, widening a little at the far end, where a thickly-wooded island showed dimly through the haze. “Have you been storing water in the boat?” Jim inquired, gravely, surveying the ancient craft among the rushes. Its bottom timbers bore evidence of long soaking. “Tis a thrifle of dampness she have in her,” admitted Mr. Burke, stepping in carefully and getting to work with a baling-tin. “I’m after sending John Conolly up only this morning to bale her out, but he’s the champion at scamping a job. Ah, she’ll dry out beautifully in the sun, sir, once I have her emptied. There now—let you get in gently, sir.” “I will,” said Mr. Linton, placing his feet with extreme caution, and coming to rest thankfully in the stern. “I don’t want to begin the day with a ducking, and those bottom boards look as if they would crumble under my weight. Take care, Wally—this is a craft to be treated with respect.” “Have you drowned many in this one?” queried Jim. Mr. Burke emitted a deep chuckle. “Yerra, you will have your joke, sir!” he said, making hasty repairs to a rowlock that chiefly consisted of rusty wire, of which more than one strand had broken away. “There’s many a good fish killed in worse boats than this. A lick of paint, now, and you wouldn’t know her.” “I wouldn’t call her a boat at all,” retorted Jim, disposing his long legs so as to avoid, as far as possible, the steadily increasing dampness in the bottom. “She’s a hoary antique, and she ought to be in a museum; but if you say she’ll stay afloat, Patsy, we’re game. Lend me that baling-tin while you’re rowing, and I’ll try to discourage the lough from entering.” Mr. Linton declined to fish, remarking that he preferred to be ready to swim when necessary, and would meanwhile officiate as baler as soon as Jim was ready to get to work with his rod. Patsy pulled out gently, until they were clear of rushes. A light wind rippled the water, sending tiny wavelets lapping against the sides of the boat; overhead, clouds drifted across a soft blue sky and now and then blotted out the sun. The hills sloping down to the lough on three sides were half shrouded in haze. “’Tis a perfect fishing-day,” Patsy pronounced, shipping his oars and letting the boat drift gently. “If there was a little more wind itself ye’d soon have a tremenjious basket of fish.”