The crimson sun slid down out of sight behind the black hills to the west and north, and the gray twilight thickened over the wilderness.  The last red tint had faded from the west and the windows of the cabins were glowing when the skipper reached the top of the path leading down to Chance Along.  A dog barked—­Pat Kavanagh’s black crackie—­and the whisper of the tide fumbling at edges of ice came up from the land-wash below the fish-house and drying-stages.  He saw the spars of his little schooner etched black against the slate-gray of the eastern sky.  He stood at the edge of the broken slope, looking and listening.  Presently he heard a mutter of voices and saw two dark figures ascending the path.

“Good evenin’, men,” he said.

The two halted.  “Glory be!” exclaimed the voice of Bill Brennen.  “The skipper himself, sure, praise the saints!  Bes it yerself, skipper, an’ no mistake?”

“Aye, Bill, an’ why for not?” returned Nolan.  “Didn’t ye t’ink as I could make the trip to Witless Bay an’ back in t’ree days?  Bes that yerself, Nick Leary?”

“Aye, skipper, aye,” replied Nick.  The two were now at the top of the path, staring anxiously at the skipper through the gloom.  Leary’s head was still in a bandage.

“We was jist a-settin’ out to look for ye, skipper,” said Bill.

Black Dennis Nolan laughed at that.  “Was ye t’inkin’ I couldn’t find me way back to me own harbor, in fair weather?” he asked.

“Aye, skipper, sure ye could,” said Bill Brennen; “but it bes like this wid us.  Dick Lynch give us the slip this very day, wid a bottle o’ rum in his belly an’ the smoke of it in his head, an’ a gun in his hand.  Aye, skipper, an’ we didn’t larn it till only a minute ago from little Patsy Burke.”

“Aye, that bes the right o’ it,” broke in Nick Leary.  “We heard tell o’ Dick Lynch a-slippin’ away to the south’ard jist this minute from little Patsy Burke.  Drunk as a bo’s’un he was, wid his old swilin’-gun on his shoulder an’ the divil’s own flare in the eyes o’ him.  So we hauled out too, skipper, intendin’ to catch him afore he come up wid yerself if the saints would give us the luck.”

“Sure, then, I didn’t catch a sight o’ the treacherous squid,” said the skipper.  “Ye see, b’ys, I took a swing off to the westward to-day to spy out some timber.  But what would Dick Lynch be huntin’ me wid his swilin’-gun for?  Why for d’ye say he was huntin’ me?  Didn’t I put the comather on to him last time?  The divil’s own courage must be in him if he bes out huntin’ for me.”

“He was tryin’ all he knowed how to raise trouble yesterday,” said Bill; “but the b’ys wasn’t wid him.  This very mornin’, when I called in to see how he was feelin’ for work, there he laid in his bed wid the covers drug up over his ugly face, a-moanin’ an’ groanin’ as how he wasn’t fit to hit a clip.  Then we all o’ us goes off to the choppin’, to cut timber for his riverence’s blessed little