On Saturday night he was early at Sulby. The bat-room was thronged with fishermen in guernseys, sea-boots, and sou'-westers. They were all on their feet together, twisting about like great congers on the quay, drinking a little and smoking a great deal, thumping the table, and all talking at once. “How've you done, Billy?”--“Enough to keep away the divil and the coroner, and that's about all.”--“Where's Tom Dug?”--“Gone to Austrilla.”--“Is Jimmy over to-day?”--“He's away to Cleveland.”--“Gough, bless me, every Manx boy seems to be going foreign.”--“That's where we'll all be after long and last, if we don't stop these southside trawlers.” Philip went in and was received with goodwill and rough courtesy, but no man abated a jot of his freedom of action or liberty of speech, and the thumping and shouting were as loud as before. “Appeal to the Receiver-General.”--“Chut! an ould woman with a face winking at you like a roast potato.”--“Will we go to the Bishop, then?”--“A whitewashed Methodist with a soul the size of a dried pea.”--“The Governor is the proper person,” said Philip above the hubbub, “and he is to visit Peel Castle next Saturday afternoon about the restorations. Let every Manx fisherman who thinks the trawl-boats are enemies of the fish be there that day. Then lay your complaint before the man whose duty it is to inquire into all such grievances; and if you want a spokesman, I'm ready to speak for you.”--“Bravo!”--“That's the ticket!” Then the meeting was at an end; the men went on with stories of the week's fishing, stories of smugglers, stories of the Swaddlers (the Wesleyans), stories of the totalers (teetotallers), and Philip made for the door. When he got there, he began to reflect that, being in the house, he ought to leave good-night with Cæsar and Grannie. Hardly decent not to do so. No use hurting people's feelings. Might as well be civil. Cost nothing anyway. Thus an overpowering compulsion in the disguise of courtesy drew him again into Kate's company; but to-morrow he would take a new turn. “Proud to see you, Mr. Philip,” said Cæsar. “The water's playing in the kettle; make Mr. Philip a cup of tay, Nancy,” said Grannie. Cæsar was sitting back to the partition, pretending to read out of a big Bible on his knees, but listening with both ears and open mouth to the profane stories being told in the bar-room. Kate was not in the kitchen, but an open book, face downwards, lay on the chair by the turf closet. “What's this?” said Philip. “A French exercise-book! Whoever can it belong to here?” “Aw, Kirry, of coorse,” said Grannie, “and sticking that close to it of an everin that you haven't a chance to put a word on her.” “Vanity, sir, vanity, all vanity,” said Cæsar; and again he listened hard. Philip's eyes began to blink. “Teaching herself French, is she? Has she been doing it long, Grannie?”