There was not much of Gortbeg. A busy little river flowed past it hurriedly, and the village had sprung up along one bank: one winding street, with a few cottages and a whitewashed inn which called itself the Fisherman’s Arms. Some boats were moored in the stream near the inn, where a crazy landing-stage jutted out. Scarcely anyone was to be seen except a few children, playing on the green, which they shared with numerous geese, a few donkeys, and some long-haired goats; while over the half-door of one of the cabins a knot of shawled women gossiped. “There’s your shop, Norah,” Mr. Linton said, indicating a dingy building which bore in its window a curious assortment of cheap sweets, slates, apples, red flannel, and bacon. “It looks a bit queer,” Norah commented, regarding the emporium rather doubtfully. “However, it’s sure to have pins.” The shop was prudently secured, by a bolted half-door, against the ravages of predatory geese or goats. Within, it was very dark, and prolonged hammering on the counter failed to bring any response. Finally Jim found his way into a back room and cooee’d lustily, returning in some haste. “Phew-w! There’s a gentleman in corduroys, asleep on a bed, and two dead pigs hanging by their heels,” he said. “None of them took any notice of me; but some one out at the back answered. Here he comes.” The proprietor of the shop entered hurriedly: a plump little man, very breathless and apologetic, and more than a little damp. “I left a bit of a young gossoon to mind the shop,” he said—“and I washin’ meself. It’s gone he is, playin’ with the other boys—sure I’ll teach him to play when I get a holt of him. Pins, miss? Is it hairpins, now, you’d be wanting?” “No, just ordinary pins,” Norah told him. “H’m,” said the shopman, doubtfully. “I dunno would I have them, at all. If it was hairpins, now, there’s not a place in Donegal where you’d get a finer selection. Pins . . .” He pondered deeply, and rummaged in a box that seemed sacred to extremely sticky bull’s eyes. “Well, well, we’d better look for them. It might be they’d be in some odd corner.” The wall behind him was divided into innumerable little compartments, and he looked faithfully through them all, striking match after match to illumine his progress. There were assorted goods in the compartments: nails and screws, tin saucepan-lids, marbles, boots, soap, oranges, reels of cotton, biscuits, socks, and ass’s shoes; he searched them all, turning over the contents of each until the match burned down to his fingers, when he would throw it hastily on the floor, strike another, and move on to the next collection. The box of matches was nearly exhausted when at length he gave up his quest. “They’re not in it at all,” he said, despondently. “I did have some, one time, but I expect they’re sold on me. When the traveller comes I could be getting some in from Belfast, if there was no hurry.” Norah indicated that there was hurry, and asked if there were another shop.