The sergeant turned his back and walked away. Peter Walsh watched him enter the barrack. Then he himself went back to Sweeny’s shop. “They’re wanting a boat,” he said. “Joseph Antony Kinsella’s or another.” “And what for?” “Unless it’s to go out to Inishbawn,” said Peter, “I don’t know what for.” “Bedamn then,” said Sweeny, “there’s no boat for them.” “I was thinking that myself.” “I wouldn’t wonder,” said Sweeney, “but something might stop Joseph Antony Kinsella from coming in today after all, thought he’s due with another load of gravel.” “He mightn’t come,” said Patsy the smith. “There’s many a thing could happen to prevent him.” “What time were they thinking of starting?” said Sweeny. “Twelve o’clock,” said Peter Walsh. “Patsy,” said Sweeny, “let you take Brannigan’s old punt and go down as far as the stone perch to try can you see Joseph Antony Kinsella coming in.” Patsy the smith was in a condition of great physical misery; but the occasion demanded energy and self-sacrifice. He staggered down to the slip, loosed the mooring rope of Brannigan’s dilapidated punt and drove her slowly down the harbour, waggling one oar over her stern. “Let you go round the town,” said Sweeny to Peter Walsh, “and find out where the fellows is that came in with the boats that’s at the quay this minute. It’s time they were off out of this.” Peter Walsh left the shop. In a minute or two he came back again. “There’s Miss Priscilla’s boat,” he said, “the Blue Wanderer. You’re forgetting her.” “They’d never venture as far as Inishbawn in her,” said Sweeny. “They might then. The wind’s east and she’d run out easy enough under the little lug.” “They’d have to row back.” “The likes of them ones,” said Peter Walsh, “wouldn’t think about how they’d get back till the time came. I’m uneasy about that boat, so I am.” “Tell me this now,” said Sweeny, after a moment’s consideration. “Did the young lady say e’er a word to you about giving the boat a fresh lick of paint?” “She did not. Why would she? Amn’t I just after painting the boat?” “Are you sure now she didn’t say she’d be the better of another coat?” “She might then, some time that I wouldn’t be paying much attention to what she said. I’m a terrible one to disremember things anyway.” “You’d better do it then,” said Sweeny. “There’s plenty of the same paint you had before in Brannigan’s, and it will do the boat no harm to get a lick with it.” Peter Walsh left the shop again and walked in a careless way down the street. Sweeny followed him at a little distance and spoke to the men who were sitting on Brannigan’s window sills. They rose at once and walked down to the slip. In a few minutes the Blue Wanderer was dragged from her moorings and carried up to a glassy patch of waste land at the end of the quay. Her floor boards were taken out of her, her oars, rudder and mast were laid on the grass. The boat herself was turned bottom upwards.