Duggin was for a moment nearly stunned by the fall, but when in a measure recovered from its effects, he rose from the ground, and eyeing the pair with a fiendish expression of malice and revenge, he said, “Collins, mark my word for it, if I was to go to hell for it, I’ll be into you for that fall! Mind you keep a look-out, my tidy fellow! Good morning to you, Sally--good morning, purty Sally! Don’t forget the race, unless you’re afraid, Collins!” So saying, Duggin left the house; and no sooner had he gone, than Sally, frightened by his brutal insolence, burst into a flood of tears; but she at length allowed herself to be consoled by William, who used the most persuasive and powerful arguments in order to soothe her ruffled spirits. As might be anticipated, the gig was disliked, and left on old Sullivan’s hands. Jerry was a little peevish on the subject, and was continually regretting his unfortunate attack of the gout, which prevented himself from superintending the work, and of a consequence rendering it a model of perfection. But poor William bore up manfully against all, and even had the audacity to prophesy, for the old man’s comfort, that in two days after the coming regatta, he would procure for the gig no less a sum than two-and-twenty guineas! The boat was finished, launched, and christened “the Darling Sally;” her fair namesake worked with her own pretty fingers a white silken flag, that was intended to adorn the beautifully-moulded bow. It was summer, and the sun was in his meridian glory, pouring a flood of light and beauty over one of the loveliest combinations of landscape--the tree-clad hill, the many-coloured rock, and the widely-extended water--that can by possibility be found within the limits of the British empire. The month was glorious July, and the scene was the far-famed Cove of Cork. How beautiful did all appear on the last day of the regatta, as a fleet of fairy-like yachts, yielding to the light breeze that just broke the surface of the sea into tiny waves, dashed aside from their bows the silver spray, and skimmed like sea-birds over the bosom of the Cove. The sea actually blazed with light, and the islands seemed like emeralds set in gold. Green were the hills that encircled in their embrace the beauteous sheet of water, and cloudless was the heaven that overhung the loveliness of earth. A stately man-of-war rode at anchor nearly opposite the town of Cove, and gay were the flags and streamers that enlivened by their hues the dark maze of rigging rising from the nobly proportioned hull. Several merchantmen were also there, and decked in like manner as the floating citadel--the seaman’s pride. The marine picture was finished by myriads of boats of all sizes and shapes, from the one-oared punt and the light wherry, to the family whaler or the well-manned race-gig, that were ever gliding to and fro, imparting life and animation to the beautiful scene.