They fished till noon, and the tide rose slowly round their rock. Then Una’s luncheon basket was fetched from the boat, the mooring rope was made secure above high water mark, and the three sat down on the sun-baked rock and ate with keen appetites. Maurice stared seawards. “That brig,” he said, “is lying very close inshore. Look at her, Neal.” “I saw her pass the point of the Skerries an hour ago.” said Neal. “She must have hauled her wind since then to fetch in so close with the tide running against her.” “I wonder why she’s doing it,” said Maurice. “She’ll have to run off again to clear Benmore.” “She looks a big ship,” said Una. “Maybe she’s 250 tons,” said Neal. “She’s about the size of the brig that sailed from Portrush for Boston last summer year with two hundred emigrants in her.” “She’s fetching closer in yet,” said Maurice. “See, she’s hoisted some flag or other, two flags, no, three, from the peak of her spanker. It’s a signal. I wonder what they want. Now they’ve laid her to. She must want a boat out from the shore. Come on, Neal, come on, Brown-Eyes. We’ll go out to her. We’ll be first. There’s no other boat nearer than those at the Port, and we’ve got a long start of them. Never mind the fish. Or wait. Fling them in. I dare say the men on the brig will be glad of them. She must be an American.” In a few minutes the boat was pulled clear of the little bay and out of the shelter of Rackle Roy. The mast was stepped and the sail set. The sheet was slacked out and the boat sped seawards before the wind. Maurice was all impatience. He got out his oar. “It’s no use,” said Neal, “the breeze has freshened since morning. She’ll sail quicker than we could row.” The brig lay little more than a mile from the shore. The boat soon reached her. “Boat, ahoy,” yelled a voice from the deck. “Lower your sail, and come up under my lee.” Maurice and Neal obeyed. The sea was rougher than it had been near the shore. The boat, when Maurice had made fast the rope flung to him, plunged up and down beside the brig, and needed careful handling to prevent her being damaged. The crew looked over the side with eager curiosity. “Say, boys,” said the captain, “what will you take for your fish? I’ll trade with you.” “I don’t want to sell them,” said Maurice. “I’ll give them to you.” His voice and accent, his refusal to barter, betrayed the fact that he was a gentleman. “I guess,” said the captain, “that you’re an aristocrat, a British aristocrat, too proud to take the money of the men who whipped you in the States. That’s so.” “I’m an Irish gentleman,” said Maurice. “Well, Mr. Irish Gentleman, if you’re too darned aristocratic to trade, I’ll give you a present of a case of good Virginia, and you may give me a present of your fish. I’d call it a swap, but if that turns your stomach I’ll let you call it a mutual present, an expression of international goodwill.” “Fling him up the fish, Neal,” said Maurice.