“They’d have it on the papers if anything happened him,” said Sweeny, “and the place would be getting a bad name, which is what I wouldn’t like on account of being a magistrate.” Priscilla began to wheel the bath-chair away from the quay. Having gone a few steps she turned and winked impressively at Peter Walsh. Then she went on. The party on the quay watched her out of sight. “Now what,” said Sweeny, “might she mean by that kind of behaviour?” “It’s as much as to say,” said Peter Walsh, “that she knows damn well where it is the master and the other gentleman will be wanting to go.” “She’s mighty cute,” said Sweeny. “And what’s more,” said Peter Walsh, “she’ll stop him if she’s able. For she doesn’t want them out on Inishbawn, no more than we do.” “Are you sure now that she meant that?” said Sweeny. “I’m as sure as if she said it, and surer.” “She’s a fine girl, so she is,” said Patsy the smith. “Devil the finer you’d see,” said one of the loafers, “if you was to search from this to America.” This, though a spacious, was a thin compliment. There are never, even at the height of the transatlantic tourist season, very many girls between Rosnacree and America. “Anyway,” said Sweeny hopefully, “it could be that the wind will go round to the southeast before morning. The glass didn’t rise any since the thunder.” “It might,” said Peter Walsh. A southeast wind is dreaded, with good reason, in Rosnacree Bay. It descends from the mountains in vicious squalls. It catches rushing tides at baffling angles and lashes them into white-lipped fury. Sturdy island boats of the larger size, boats with bluff bows and bulging sides, brave it under their smallest lugs. But lesser boats, and especially light pleasure crafts like the Tortoise do well to lie snug at their moorings till the southeasterly wind has spent its strength. CHAPTER XX Timothy Sweeny, J. P., as suited a man of portly figure and civic dignity, was accustomed to lie long in his bed of a morning. On weekdays he rose, in a bad temper, at nine o’clock. On Sundays, when he washed and shaved, he was half an hour later and his temper was worse. An apprentice took down the shutters of the shop on weekdays at half past nine. By that time Sweeny, having breakfasted, sworn at his wife and abused his children, was ready to enter upon the duties of his calling. On the morning after the thunderstorm he was wakened at the outrageous hour of half past seven by the rattle of a shower of pebbles against his window. The room he slept in looked out on the back-yard through which his Sunday customers were accustomed to make their way to the bar. Sweeny turned over in his bed and cursed. The window panes rattled again under another shower of gravel. Sweeny shook his wife into consciousness. He bade her get up and see who was in the back-yard. Mrs. Sweeny, a lean harassed woman with grey hair, fastened a dingy pink nightdress round her throat with a pin and obeyed her master.