The peppermint creams were finished before the second brew of soup came to the boil on the Primus stove. Priscilla poured it out. It was hot, of about the consistency usual in soup, and it smelt savoury. Nevertheless Miss Rutherford, after watching for an opportunity to do so unseen, poured hers out on the ground. Frank fingered his mug irresolutely and once took a sip. Priscilla, after looking at her share intently, carried it off and gave it to Jimmy Kinsella. “It’s curious,” she said when she came back, “but I don’t feel nearly so keen on soup as I did. I daresay it’s the peaches and the peppermint creams. I used to think it was rather rot putting off the sweets at dinner until after the meaty things. Now, I know it isn’t. Sometimes there’s really a lot of sense in an arrangement which seems silly at first, which is one of the things which always makes me say that grownup people aren’t such fools as you might suppose if you didn’t really know.” “We’ll remember that at lunch tomorrow,” said Miss Rutherford. No one mentioned worms. For the second time the weather, generally malign and irresponsible, favoured Priscilla. With the rising tide a light westerly breeze sprang up. She hoisted the sails and sat in the stern of the boat with an oar. She tucked the middle of it under her armpit, pressed her side tight against the gunwale, and with the blade trailing in the water steadied the Tortoise on her course. There is a short cut back to Rosnacree quay from the bay in which Miss Rutherford was left. It winds among a perfect maze of rocks, half covered or bare at low water, gradually becoming invisible as the tide rises. Priscilla, whose self-confidence was unshaken by her disaster in Craggeen passage, took this short cut in spite of a half-hearted protest from Frank. “I don’t exactly know the way,” she said, “but now that we’ve lost the rudder there’s nothing very much can happen to us. We can keep the centreboard up as we’re running, and if we do go on a rock, the tide will lift us off again. It’s rising now. Besides, it saves us miles to go this way, and it really won’t do for you to be late for dinner.” CHAPTER XIV Thomas Antony Kinsella sat with his legs dangling over the edge of the quay. Beneath him lay his boat. The tide was flowing, but it had not yet floated her. She was supported on an even keel by the mooring ropes made fast from her bow and stern to bollards on the quay. Her sails and gear lay in confusion on her thwarts. She was still half full of gravel although some of her cargo had been shovelled out and lay in a heap behind Kinsella. He was apparently disinclined to shovel out the rest, an excusable laziness, for the day was very hot.