Next morning, under pretext of the Deemster's fortnightly Court at Douglas and of important business to do before it, Stowell breakfasted by the light of a lamp and the crackling of a fire, and set out in his car for Peel. Soon after six he was descending into the little white fishing-port that lies in the lap of its blue circle of sea, with the red ruins of its Cathedral at its feet and the green arms of its hills behind it. The little town was still half asleep. Middle-aged women were gutting herrings from barrel to barrel, while blood dripped from their broad thumbs; old men were baiting lines with shellfish; cadgers' cart were standing empty at the foot of the pier, with their horses' heads in bags of oats and chopped hay; a hundred fishing-boats by the quay, with their sails hanging slack from their masts, were swaying to the ebbing tide, and an Irish tramp steamer, the Dan O'Connor, was lazily letting down the fires under her black and red funnel. But at the pier-head, close under the blind eyes of the Cathedral, there was a scene of real activity. It was the fish auction for the night's catch. The auctioneer, an Irishman, was standing on a barrel, with a circle of fish-cadgers around him, and an empty space, like a cock-pit, in front, to which the long-booted fishermen, one by one, with ponderous agility, were carrying specimen baskets of herrings and dropping them down on the red flags with a thud. "Now, gintlemen, here's your last chance of a herring this week. We're a religious people in the Isle of Man and sorra a wan more will ye get till Tuesday." Stowell, who had drawn up his car, and was standing at the back of the crowd, was startled. How had he come to forget that Manx fishing boats did not go out on Saturday or Sunday? Was this going to defeat his plan? The fish auction went on. "Now, min, what do you say to forty mease from the _Mona_? Thirty-five shillin'! Thank you, Mr. Flynn! Any incrase on thirty-five?" "Thirty-six and a quid for yourself if you'll lave me to put a sight up on the wife," said a voice from the back of the crowd. During the laughter which the rude jest provoked, Stowell looked at the speaker. He was the skipper of the Irish tramp steamer--a grizzly old salt, spitting tobacco juice from behind a discoloured hand, and having rascal written on every line of his face. Turning away, Stowell walked slowly to the further end of the bay, and as slowly back again. A new scheme had occurred to him--something better than a fishing-boat, far better. He was now more sure than ever that the Almighty was using him for His righteous ends since even his failures of memory were helping him. By the time he returned the auction was over. The pier was empty and nobody was in sight except the Irish Captain who was standing on the deck of his ship by the side of the cabin companion. After looking to right and left, Stowell saluted him. "Where are you going to when you leave Peel, Captain?"