rgetting her."

"They'd never venture as far as Inishbawn in her," said Sweeny.

"They might then. The wind's east and she'd run out easy enough under
the little lug."

"They'd have to row back."

"The likes of them ones," said Peter Walsh, "wouldn't think about how
they'd get back till the time came. I'm uneasy about that boat, so I
am."

"Tell me this now," said Sweeny, after a moment's consideration. "Did
the young lady say e'er a word to you about giving the boat a fresh lick
of paint?"

"She did not. Why would she? Amn't I just after painting the boat?"

"Are you sure now she didn't say she'd be the better of another coat?"

"She might then, some time that I wouldn't be paying much attention to
what she said. I'm a terrible one to disremember things anyway."

"You'd better do it then," said Sweeny. "There's plenty of the same
paint you had before in Brannigan's, and it will do the boat no harm to
get a lick with it."

Peter Walsh left the shop again and walked in a careless way down the
street. Sweeny followed him at a little distance and spoke to the men
who were sitting on Brannigan's window sills. They rose at once and
walked down to the slip. In a few minutes the _Blue Wanderer_ was
dragged from her moorings and carried up to a glassy patch of waste
land at the end of the quay. Her floor boards were taken out of her,
her oars, rudder and mast were laid on the grass. The boat herself was
turned bottom upwards."

In the course of the next half hour the owners of the boats which lay
alongside the quay sauntered down one by one. Brown lugsails were run up
on the smaller boats. The mainsail of the hooker was slowly hoisted. At
half past eleven there was not a single boat of any kind left afloat in
the harbour. Peter Walsh, his coat off and his sleeves rolled up, was
laying long stripes of green paint on the already shining bottom of the
Blue Wanderer. He worked with the greatest zeal and earnestness. Timothy
Sweeny looked at the empty harbour with satisfaction. Then he went back
to the shop and dosed comfortably behind his bar.

Patsy the smith stood in the stern of the punt and waggled his oar with
force and skill. He disliked taking this kind of exercise very much
indeed. His nature craved for copious, cooling drafts of porter, drawn
straight from the cask and served in large thick tumblers. He had
intended to spend the morning in taking this kind of refreshment The day
was exceedingly hot. When he