as acquainted with one. That
was in Inishmore, where I was born and reared."

I waited. The chance of getting Peter to tell an interesting story is to
wait patiently. Any attempt to goad him on by asking questions is like
striking before a fish is hooked. The chance of getting either story or
fish is spoiled.

"There was a young fellow in the island them times," said Peter, "called
Anthony O'Flaherty. A kind of uncle of my father's he was, and a very
fine man. There wasn't his equal at running or lepping, and they say he
was terrible daring on the sea. That was before my mother was born, but
she heard tell of what he did. When she knew him he was like an old man,
and the heart was gone out of him."

At this point Peter stopped. His pipe had gone out. He relit it
with immense deliberation. I made a mistake. By way of keeping the
conversation going I asked a question.

"Did he see a mermaid?"

"He did," said Peter, "and what's more he married one."

There Peter stopped again abruptly, but with an air of finality. He had,
so I gathered, told me all he was going to tell me about the mermaid. I
had blundered badly in asking my question. I suppose that some note
of unsympathetic scepticism in my tone suggested to Peter that I was
inclined to laugh at him. I did my best to retrieve my position. I sat
quite silent and stared at the peak of the mainsail. The block on the
horse rattled occasionally. The sun's rim touched the horizon. At last
Peter was reassured and began again.

"It was my mother told me about it, and she knew, for many's the time
she did be playing with the young lads, her being no more than a little
girleen at the time. Seven of them there was, and the second eldest was
the one age with my mother. That was after herself left him."

"Herself" was vague enough; but I did not venture to ask another
question. I took my eyes off the peak of the mainsail and fixed them
inquiringly on Peter. It was as near as I dared go to asking a question.

"Herself," said Peter, "was one of them ones."

He nodded sideways over the gunwale of the boat. The sea, though still
calm, was beginning to be moved by that queer restlessness which comes
on it at sunset. The tide eddied in mysteriously oily swirls. The rocks
to the eastward of us had grown dim. A gull flew by overhead uttering
wailing cries. The graceful terns had disappeared. A cormorant, flying
so low that its wing-tips broke the water, sped across our bows to som