lump into his lap. It became
a subject of interesting speculation whether there was a square inch of
his body left dry anywhere.

Priscilla, who had no oilskin, got wet quicker but was no wetter in the
end. Her cotton frock clung to her. Water oozed out of the tops of
her shoes as she pressed her feet against the lee side of the boat to
maintain her position on the slippery floor boards. She had crammed her
hat under the stern thwart. Her hair, glistening with salt water, blew
in tangles round her head. Her face glowed with excitement. She was
enjoying herself to the utmost.

Tack after tack brought them further up the bay. The wind was still
freshening, but the sea, as they got nearer the eastern shore, became
calmer. The _Tortoise_ raced through it. Sharp squalls struck her
occasionally. She dipped her lee gunwale and took a lump of solid water
on board. Priscilla luffed her and let the main sheet run through her
fingers. The _Tortoise_ bounced up on even keel and shook her sails in
an ill-tempered way. Priscilla, with a pull at the tiller, set her on
her course again. A few minutes later the sea whitened and frothed to
windward and the same process was gone through again. The stone perch
was passed. The tacks became shorter, and the squalls, as the wind
descended from the hills, were more frequent.

But the sail ended triumphantly. Never before had Priscilla rounded up
the _Tortoise_ to her mooring buoy with such absolute precision. Never
before had she so large an audience to witness her skill. Peter Walsh
was waiting for her at the buoy in Bran-nigan's punt. Patsy the smith,
quite sober but still yellow in the face, was standing on the slip. On
the edge of the quay, having torn themselves from their favourite seat,
were all the loafers who usually occupied Brannigan's window sills.
Timothy Sweeny had come down from his shop and stood in the background,
a paunchy, flabby figure of a man, with keen beady eyes.

"The weather's broke, Miss," said Peter Walsh, as he rowed them ashore.
"The wind will work round to the southeast and your sailing's done for
this turn."

"It may not," said Priscilla, stepping from the punt to the slip, "you
can't be sure about the wind."

"But it will, Miss," said one of the loafers, leaning over to speak to
her.

Another and then another of them took up the words. With absolute
unanimity they assured her that sailing next day would be totally
impossible.

"Unless you're wanting