given.

'Ould Andy' was the official pilot--a hardy old farmer-fisherman,
weazened by years and the weather. He had donned his best in honour of
the occasion--a coarse suit of fearnought serges, quaintly cut, and an
ancient top hat, set at a rakish angle. Hasty rising showed in razor
cuts on his hard blue jowl, and his untied shoes made clatter as he
mounted the poop, waving a yellow time-stained license. An odd figure
for a master-pilot; but he made a good impression on Old Jock when he
said, simply, "... but bedad, now, Cyaptin! Sure, Oim no hand at thim
big yards ov yours, but Oi kin show ye where th' daape watther is!"

The ship steered to his liking, and all in trim, he walked the poop,
showing a great pride of his importance as a navigator of twenty feet.
Suddenly--at no apparent call--he stepped to the side where his boat
was towing.

"What-t," he yelled. "Ach, hoult yer whisht! What-t are yez shoutin'
about? What-t? Ast the Cyaptin f'r a bit av 'baccy f'r th' byes in
th' boat! Indade, an' Oi will natt ast th' dacent gintilman f'r a bit
av 'baccy f'r th' byes in th' boat! What-t? Ach, hoult yer whisht,
now!"

Joining the Captain he resumed the thread of his description of Sligo
Port, apparently unheeding the Old Man's side order to the steward that
sent a package of hard tobacco over the rail.

"... an' ye'll lie at Rosses Point, Cyaptin, till ye loighten up t'
fourteen faate. Thin, thr'll be watther f'r yes at th' Quay, but..."
(Another tangent to the lee rail.) ... "Ach! What-t's th' matther wit'
ye now. Be m' sowl, it's heart-breakin' ye are, wit' yer shoutin' an'
that-t! What-t? Salt baafe an' a few bisskits! No! Oi will natt!!
Ast 'im yersilf f'r a bit av salt baafe an' a few bisskits, bad scran
t' ye, yes ongrateful thaaves!"

We are homeward bound; the beef and biscuits go down. After them, "a
tarn sail--jest a rag, d'ye moind, t' make a jib f'r th' ould boat";
then, "a pat av paint an' a brush"--it becomes quite exciting with Ould
Andy abusing his boat's crew at every prompted request. We are
beginning to wager on the nature of the next, when sent to the stations
for anchoring. Ould Andy, with an indignant gesture and shake of his
fists, turns away to attend to his more legitimate business, and, at
his direction, we anchor to seaward of the Bar.

The wind that has served us so well has died away in faint airs,
leaving a long glassy swell to score the placid surface of the Bay