The day was as hot as the preceding one. I walked slowly towards the west, and presently found myself upon a pier, or breakwater, at the mouth of the harbour. A large steamer lay at a little distance within the pier. There were fishing boats on both sides, the greater number on the outer side, which lies towards the hill of Holyhead. On the shady side of the breakwater, under the wall, were two or three dozen of Irish reapers; some were lying asleep, others in parties of two or three were seated with their backs against the wall, and were talking Irish; these last all appeared to be well-made, middle-sized young fellows, with rather a ruffianly look; they stared at me as I passed. The whole party had shillealahs either in their hands or by their sides. I went to the extremity of the pier, where was a little light-house, and then turned back. As I again drew near the Irish, I heard a hubbub, and observed a great commotion amongst them. All, whether those whom I had seen sitting, or those whom I had seen reclining, had got, or were getting, on their legs. As I passed them they were all standing up, and their eyes were fixed upon me with a strange kind of expression, partly of wonder, methought, partly of respect. “Yes, ’tis he, sure enough,” I heard one whisper. On I went, and at about thirty yards from the last I stopped, turned round, and leaned against the wall. All the Irish were looking at me—presently they formed into knots, and began to discourse very eagerly in Irish, though in an under tone. At length I observed a fellow going from one knot to the other, exchanging a few words with each. After he had held communication with all, he nodded his head, and came towards me with a quick step; the rest stood silent and motionless, with their eyes turned in the direction in which I was, and in which he was advancing. He stopped within a yard of me, and took off his hat. He was an athletic fellow of about twenty-eight, dressed in brown frieze. His features were swarthy, and his eyes black; in every lineament of his countenance was a jumble of savagery and roguishness. I never saw a more genuine wild Irish face—there he stood, looking at me full in the face, his hat in one hand, and his shillealah in the other. “Well, what do you want?” said I, after we had stared at each other about half a minute. “Sure, I’m just come on the part of the boys and myself to beg a bit of a favour of your reverence.” “Reverence,” said I, “what do you mean by styling me reverence?” “Och sure, because to be styled your reverence is the right of your reverence.” “Pray, what do you take me for?” “Och sure, we knows your reverence very well.” “Well, who am I?” “Och, why Father Toban, to be sure.” “And who knows me to be Father Toban?” “Och, a boy here knows your reverence to be Father Toban.” “Where is that boy?” “Here he stands, your reverence.” “Are you that boy?” “I am, your reverence.” “And you told the rest that I was Father Toban?”