Patsy the smith saw the wisdom of this advice. Tired as he was he seized his one oar and began sculling home. Kinsella watched him go and then did a peculiar thing. He took the shovel which lay amidships in his boat and began to heave his cargo of gravel into the sea. As he worked a faint breeze from the west rose, fanned him and died away. Another succeeded it and then another. Kinsella looked round him. The four boats which had drifted out from the quay before the easterly breeze of the morning, had hauled in their sheets. They were awaiting a wind from the west. The heavy purple thunder cloud was rapidly climbing the sky. Kinsella shovelled hard at his gravel. His boat, lightened of her load, rose in the water, showing inch by inch more free board. A steady breeze from the west succeeded the light occasional puffs. It increased in strength. The four boats inside him stooped to it. They sped across and across the channel towards the stone perch in short tacks. Kinsella hoisted his sail and took the tiller. The boat swung up into the wind and coursed away to the south west, close hauled to a stiff west wind. The thunder cloud burst over Rosnacree. Sir Lucius and Lord Torrington drove into the town and pulled up in front of Brannigan’s shop at a quarter to twelve. They looked round the empty harbour in some surprise. Sir Lucius went at once into the shop. Lord Torrington, being an Englishman with a proper belief in the forces of law and order, walked a few yards back and entered the police barracks. “Brannigan,” said Sir Lucius, “where’s my boat? and where’s that ruffian Peter Walsh?” “Your boat, is it?” said Brannigan. “I sent down word to Peter Walsh to have her ready for me at twelve, or, if my daughter had taken her out----” “It would be better,” said Brannigan, “if you were to see Peter Walsh yourself. Sure I don’t know what’s happened to your boat.” “Where’s Peter Walsh?” “He’s down at the end of the quay putting an extra coat of paint on Miss Priscilla’s boat. I don’t know what sense there is in doing the like, but of course he wouldn’t care to go contrary to what the young lady might say.” Sir Lucius left the shop abruptly. At the door he ran into Lord Torrington and the police sergeant. “Damn it all, Lentaigne,” said Lord Torrington, “how are we going to get out?” “There was boats in it,” said the police sergeant, “plenty of them, when I gave your lordship’s message to Peter Walsh.” “Where are they now?” said Lord Torrington. “What’s the good of telling me they were here when they’re not?” The police sergeant looked cautiously round. “I wouldn’t say,” he said at last, “but they’re gone out of it, every one of the whole lot of them.” Peter Walsh, his paint brush in his hand, and an expression of respectful regret, on his face, came up to Sir Lucius and touched his hat. “What’s the meaning of this?” said Sir Lucius. “Didn’t I send you word to have a boat, either my own or some other, ready for me at twelve?”