ence's blessed little church, an' mugs-up in the woods
widout comin' home, an' when we gets back to the harbor, maybe a few
minutes afore sun-down, little Patsy Burke gives us the word as how Dick
Lynch went off wid a gun, swearin' by the whole assembly of heaven as
how he'd be blowin' yer heart out o' ye the minute he clapped eye on ye.
An' then, skipper dear, Pat Kavanagh's girl Mary comes a-runnin' wid
word as how Dick Lynch t'iefed a bottle o' rum from Pat himself and was
brow-sprit under wid the glory of it an' fit to take a shot--except for
the aim of him--at Saint Peter himself. She telled as how he'd shaped
his course to the south'ard, with his gun on his shoulder, swearin' he'd
blow the head off ye or never come home to Chance Along no more. So
Nick an' me puts two an' two forninst each other an' figgered as how
Dick would have ye if somethin' didn't happen to t'row out his plans."

"Ye bain't got the right o' it there, Bill," said Nick. "'Twas Mary
telled us to follow after Dick Lynch. She'd gone herself, she said, but
she'd heard o' it no more'n a minute ago from Pat, her bein' over to the
skipper's house an' tryin' to cheer up the lady what come off the wrack!
'Save the skipper,' says Mary, the eyes o' her like lumps o' ice on the
coast in June. 'Save him from the drunk dog wid the gun, even if it bes
the death o' yerselves.' Aye, that bes what Mary Kavanagh said to
us--an' here we bes, skipper."

"Mary bes a good girl," said the skipper. Then he laughed harshly and
slapped Bill Brennen on the back.

"Me brains bes still in me head an' me hands on the ends o' me two
arms," he exclaimed; "but what bes happenin' to Dick Lynch, I wonder? If
ever he comes back--but he'll not dare! Aye, ye kin lay to that. He'd as
soon jump into hell wid the divil as come back now to Chance Along.
Maybe he'll be losin' himself like Foxey Jack Quinn went an' done wid
himself. Aye, lads, fools kin tell as how me luck bes gone--but the
saints themselves bes wid me, drivin' me enemies out o' Chance Along
widout me so much as havin' to kill one o' them!"

"Sure, skipper, it looks that way, an' no mistake," said Bill Brennen.
"The saints be wid ye for the kind heart ye has for helpless women an'
childer, an' for yer love o' Father McQueen, an' for the work ye bes at
to build the little church; but most of all, skipper, for the kind heart
o' ye to every helpless woman an' child."

A scowl, or was it a shadow, crossed Black Dennis No