DAYS STOLEN FOR SPORT 219 



than myself. He and his fishing mate, with 

 our driver's help, got the boat upon their heads 

 and walked with it as if it were a shell and, indeed, 

 it proved to be a flimsy shell of thin deal boards 

 covered with canvas fortified by tar. I thought 

 her none too safe for four to go in but, after we 

 had crossed the bar that caused her to bump her 

 tail in such a fashion as jerked our heads at their 

 full weight upon our shoulders, she glided like 

 a duck over the big oily waves of the open sea. 

 Our driver had pushed us off and then spread out 

 his arms as if to bless us, unmindful of a wave that 

 came to wet him to the knees. 



Brian O'Malley, the head boatman, whom Pat 

 so lovingly called a bhoy, was the most ancient 

 mariner I had ever shipped with and much ex- 

 ceeded, in appearance, the seventy-three years he 

 later on confessed to ; yet there was a grimness in 

 his work and ordering of the course which soon 

 inspired a confidence that he still possessed more 

 go than many a younger man. Pat Lavelle, the 

 second boatman, a sturdy, dark-skinned, black- 

 haired man, showed a deference to his comrade 

 which matched well our driver's faith that Brian 

 O'Malley would meet our needs. 



The fisherman had lines for all sorts of fishing 

 so we felt sure of fun of some kind, but it was 

 none the less a question of importance that Harry 

 asked : 



" Are there any pollack to be caught, Mr 

 O'Malley?" 



" I can take ye where they are," was his reply, 

 so we put our tackle together and were ready when 

 we were told that we might put our lines out. 



