the steps--there's Tommy Tubman, and Billy Balla-Slieau, and
that wastrel of a churchwarden--yes, and there's ould Kennish--they're
all there. Deng my buttons, all of them. They're thinking to crow over
us, Capt'n. Don't cross by the ferry. Let me run for a car. Then we'll
slip up by the bridge yonder, and down the quay like a mill race, and up
to the gangway like smook, and abooard in a jiffy. That's it--yes, I'll
be off immadient, and we'll bate the blackguards anyway."

Willie was seizing his cap to carry out his intention of going for a
cab in order that his master might be spared the humiliation of passing
through the line of false friends who had gathered at the ferry steps to
see the last of him; but Davy shouted "Stop," and pointed to the hampers
still unpacked.

"I'm broke," said he, "and what matter who knows it? Reminds me, sir,"
said Davy to Lovibond, "of Parson Cowan. The ould man lived up Andreas
way, and after sarvice he'd be saying, 'Boys let's put a sight on the
Methodees,' and they'd be taking a slieu round to the chapel door.
Then as the people came out he'd be offering his snuff-boxes all about.
'William, how do? have a pinch?' 'Ah, Robbie, fine evening; take a
sneeze?' 'Is that you, Tommy? I haven't another box in my clothes,
but if you'll put your finger and thumb into my waistcoat pocket here,
you'll find some dust.' Aw, yes, a reglar up-and-a-down-er, Parson
Cowan, as aisy, as aisy, and no pride at all. But he had his wakeness
same as a common man, and it was the Plow Inn at Ramsey. One day he was
going out of it middling full--not fit to walk the crank anyway--when
who should be coming up the street from the court-house but the Bishop!
It was Bishop--Bishop--chut, his name's gone at me--but no matter,
glum as a gur-goyle anyway, and straight as a lamppost--a reglar
steeple-up-your-back sort of a chap. Ould Mrs. Beatty saw him, and she
lays a hould of Parson Cowan and starts awkisking him back into the
house, and through into the parlor where the chiney cups is. 'You
mustn't go out yet,' the ould woman was whispering. 'It's the Bishop.
And him that sevare--it's shocking! He'll surspend you! And think what
they'll be saying! A parson, too! Hush, sir hush! Don't spake! You'll be
waiting till it's dark, and then going home with John in the bottom of
the cart, and nice clane straw to lie on, and nobody knowing nothing.'
But the ould man wouldn't listen. He drew hisself up on the ould woman
tremenjo