“Is it yourself, Capt'n? If you've none, I've none. It's independent young rovers like you for newses, not poor ould chaps tied to the harbour-post same as a ship's cable. I was hearing you, though. You'd a power of music in the everin' yonder. Fine doings up at Ballure, seemingly.” “Nothing fresh with yourself then, Daniel? No?” “Except that I am middling sick of these late sailings, and the sooner they're building us a breakwater the better. If the young Deemster will get that for us, he'll do.” They were nearing a lamp at the corner of the marketplace. “It's like you know the young Ballawhaine crossed with the boat to-night? Something wrong, with the ould man, they're telling me. But boy, veen, what's come of your hat at all?” “My hat?” said Pete, groping about his head. “Oh, my hat? Blown off on the pier, of coorse.” “'Deed, man! Not much wind either. You'll be for home and the young wife, eh, Capt'n?” “Must be,” said Pete, with an empty laugh. And the harbour-master, who was a bachelor, laughed more heartily, and added---- “You married men are like Adam, you've lost the rib of your liberty, but you've got a warm little woman to your side instead.” “Ha! ha! ha! Goodnight!” Pete's laugh echoed through the empty market-place. The harbour-master had seen nothing. Pete drew a long breath, followed the line of the harbour as far as to the bridge at the end of it, and then turned back through the town. He had forgotten again that he was bareheaded, and he walked down Parliament Street with a tremendous step and the air of a man to whom nothing unusual had occurred. People were standing in groups at the corner of every side street, talking eagerly, with the low hissing sound that women make when they are discussing secrets. So absorbed were they that Pete passed some of them unobserved. He caught snatches of their conversation. “The rascal,” said one. “Clane ruined the ould man, anyway,” said another. “Ross Christian again,” thought Pete. But a greater secret swamped everything. Still he heard the people as he passed. “Sarve her right, though, whatever she gets--she knew what he was.” “Laving the child, too, the unfeeling creature.” Then the sharp voices of the women fell on the dull consciousness of Pete like forks of lightning. “Whisht, woman! the husband himself,” said somebody. There was a noise of feet like the plash of retiring waves, and Pete noticed that one of the groups had broken into a half circle, facing him as he strode along the street. He nodded cheerfully over both sides, threw back his bare head, and plodded on. But his teeth were set hard, and his breathing was quick and audible. “I see what they mane,” he muttered. Outside his own house he found a crowd. A saddle-horse, with a cloud of steam rising from her, was standing with the reins over its head, linked to the gate-post. It was Cæsar's mare, Molly. Every eye was on the house, and no one saw Pete as he came up behind.