At some of the cabins his orders were for the woods, and at some they were for work on the stranded ship.  He did not disturb Bill Brennen or Nick Leary.  He knew that they would be around at his house for orders by sun-up.  The last cabin he visited was that of Pat Kavanagh.  Kavanagh was a man of parts, and had been a close friend of the old skipper.  He was a man of the world, having sailed deep-sea voyages in his youth.  He was a grand fiddler, a grand singer, and had made more “Come-all-ye’s” than you could count on your fingers and toes.  He had a wooden leg; and his daughter was the finest girl in Chance Along.  His best known Come-all-ye, which is sung to this day from Caplin Arm to Bay Bulls, starts like this:—­

    “Come, all ye hardy fishermen
      An’ hearken to me lay
    O’ how the good brig ‘Peggy Bell’
      Went down in Trin’ty Bay.

    “The skipper he was from St. John’s,
      The mate from Harbor Grace;
    The bosun was a noble lad
      Wid whiskers ’round his face.”

Pat Kavanagh was the author of the ballad that commences this way, and of many more.

He was proud of his daughter and his wooden leg; he was happy with his fiddle and his verses; he did not hold with physical or emotional violence, and asked the world for nothing more than to be left alone beside his stove with a knowledge that there was something in the pot and a few cakes of hard bread in the bin.  He could not understand the new skipper, his terrible activity, his hard-fisted ways and his ambitions, and he took no stock in wrecks except as subjects for songs; but he had been delighted with a gift of four fine blankets and two quarts of rum which the skipper had made him recently.

Mary Kavanagh opened the door to the skipper, and let a fine light slip into her blue eyes at the sight of him.  Her cheeks, which had been unusually pale when she opened the door, flushed bright and deep.  The young man greeted her pleasantly and easily, and stepped across the threshold.  Pat was already out of bed and seated in his chair close to the stove.  He was long and thin, with a straggling beard and moustaches, a long face, a long nose, and kindly, twinkling eyes.  Though he looked happy enough he also looked like a widower—­why, I can’t say.  It may have been owing to his general unstowed, unfurled, unswabbed appearance.  He had not yet fastened on his wooden leg.  He never did, nowadays, until he had eaten his breakfast and played a tune or two on his fiddle.  His eyes were paler than his daughter’s, and not nearly so bright, and he had a way of staring at a thing for minutes at a time as if he did not see it—­and usually he didn’t.  Altogether, he was a very impractical person.  He must have made a feeble sailor—­a regular fool as a look-out—­and the wonder is that he lost only one leg during his deep-sea career.  He looked at the skipper with that calm, far-away shimmer in his eyes, combing his thin whiskers with his fingers.  He did not speak.  His wooden leg was leaning up against his chair.